Have dance parties.


My 39, Day 15.

Like many families, our living room functions as a space to gather, a space to hold (ahem) “family meetings”, and a space to unwind from hectic days.

Maybe not so much like other families, our living room is also a place to get crunk.

Especially on those rare nights when we’re tracking ahead of schedule for bedtime, or when somebody tried something new and green at dinner, or because it’s Monday.

Give us a Guitar Hero prop and a few kitchen utensils, and it’s on.


We’re a forgiving crowd, awarding points for enthusiasm versus technique.

It’s a merciful thing too.

My dancing is so God awful that the very subject of it carried an entire, lengthy toast during our rehearsal dinner (something about looking like a chicken, but I swear that’s just a rumor).

It’s usually a five song set, a mishmash of solo artists, duets, and one final number to really bring down the house (blasé lab mix expressions notwithstanding).

The song rotation sways by occasion, making it entirely logical that we follow Bruno Mars’ Uptown Funk with Cookie Monster’s Call Me Maybe.

It’s ridiculous and fun and gives us all the goofiest of reasons to enjoy each other’s company, especially on the days that seem ho hum.

What I did when I was eight I still love at 38. Good Lord willing I’ll be pushing 68 and beyond, pilfering around for the nearest whisk and upbeat melody, still proving those rehearsal dinner imitators right.

Leave a Reply