He Always Laughed at My Jokes.
Decades ago, when I was very young – or at least, felt very much younger – I used to frequent some weekend dances at a local rec center. In the early 90’s, the dances were a big part of my social scene. I’d given up the bars and the wild life, and settled into a more easy-going lifestyle.
And I was still young enough to really dance. I loved the music of the day – whatever it was – and flailed around on the dance floor with the other dancers to the best of my ability. When the Electric Boogie played, I screamed with excitement and raced out to electrically slide and spin until I was nearly crying with glee. I had the time of my life dancing to that song.
The only thing that made my dancing experience better happened around 1993, when this guy I knew started appearing regularly at the dances. He hung around in the kitchen, helping the folks who ran the dance, and he spent a lot of time talking to people who needed a dancing break. When I talked to him, he always laughed at my jokes – and most people didn’t really understand my humor. But this guy did.
Eventually, he danced with me. He didn’t slide or do the line dances. In fact, he was a swing dancer. I had no idea what swing dancing was, but I would wander out onto the floor with him and laugh until my sides hurt. Long before the days of “So You Think You Can Dance,” he would spin me around and dip me like a pro. I just tried to remain upright as I was beaming and flying across the floor.
I danced with this guy every week and, eventually, I spent more time hanging out in the kitchen with him than I spent dancing with anyone else. After a couple of years, the dances kind of faded out – but it was okay. I married the guy.
Bill and I fell in love at that rec center; at least, I fell in love with him. My visions of him – those memories – are still so sharp that when I pass by that rec center, where those dances are now a thing of the past, I can still see Bill standing there, smiling.
This past weekend, I walked into that rec center for the first time in years, along with my 18-year-old son. This weekend, it was the site of my son’s After Prom Party – a thought I simply could not have imagined 20 years ago as I was sliding across that dance floor in 1993.
Dylan had a wonderful time, and the venue was perfect for the party. But I find it hard to believe that the After Prom Party was as perfect for Dylan as it was for his dad and me, all those years ago.