I’m a punk rock girl. Give me some Green Day, some My Chemical Romance, some Fugazi, and you’ll find me jumping around like a fool, fist pumping in an energetic rage against “the man.” But I’m also a T. Swift fan. Turn up Calm Down, and I’m sashaying around, singing into whatever nearby item can stand in as my fake microphone. Blare some Broadway showtunes and suddenly I’m Defying Gravity all over my house with flying leaps. Oooh, and the Beatles. Yes, please. Watch me throw in some Ringo style head bops along the way. Some Flo Rida, Stevie Wonder, Icona Pop, Avici, Frank Turner… old school, new school… I’ll take it all. And I will dance the fuck out of it.
I’m not saying I’ll look good doing it, but I don’t dance for anyone but me now.
There has been many a moment in my life defined by music— concerts, Warped Tours, open mics, first kisses, last dances, long drives… There have been those songs that struck just the right chord at just the right time, and the ones that snuck into my belly and lit a fire there. But music plays its biggest role nowadays filling the space around the quotidian moments I spend alone— when I’m writing along to my mellow Saggy Boobs playlist or cleaning to whichever soundtrack I’m feeling that day. I blow off steam with my Groovy Grump playlist, and eat dinner listening to that Lumineers album every millennial with a record player seems to own.
I am constantly dancing around my house. Sometimes slow spins and flowy arms. Sometimes head bangs or booty shakes.
I didn’t always do this. For eleven years, I danced only sporadically.
And then, in September, my ex moved out.
After the dust settled, I plugged my phone into my record player and let the speakers blast a random Spotify list, unsure what exactly I was in the mood for. Unsure if I was sad or happy. Or perhaps anxious? Lonely? Fucking estactic? I looked around at the space that was now all mine and I didn’t know what to do with it.
That’s when Jukebox the Ghost’s Fred Astaire came on.
It started in my shoulders. Then my hips wanted in on the fun. My legs, my feet, my arms, my head, my torso, my friggin’ eyebrows… every part of my being wanted to let loose. The movements were reserved at first, as I felt my way into the rhythm of the song and into the space that— yes! Is all mine now! I breathed in the song and exhaled a dance that took me from the living room, to the kitchen, and back again. I spun around the table and shimmied past the window, praising St. Vitus, patron saint of dancers and epilepsy for setting me the fuck free, as my spastic movements got bigger and grander.
Three minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, I collapsed on the couch completely out of breath and completely me.