Doing dishes

I don’t know who came up with those stupid, “dance like no one is watching” signs.

You don’t “dance like no one is watching.”

You dance when no one is watching.

In the kitchen—

While you’re putting up dishes.

Maybe to Prince.

Or Britney.

Or Madonna.

Or James Taylor.

Or the Outfield.

But you just do it.

Swish your hips, grab the wooden spoon, use it as microphone, pull the disorganized drawer it lives in, and drop her in with a twist and slam like you’re on Broadway.

Why?

Because maybe it makes your heart full for a second.

And you can argue with me—

and that’s all right, you just aren’t there yet.

But there will come a day,

when the song hits,

And you’re alone,

in your underwear,

or pjs

or whatever—

And that beat will drop, like “Hey Mr. DJ, put a record on.”

And you’ll smile,

with those red tongs in your hand,

and you’ll twirl.

And when that happens—

Lean in.

Dance.

Smile.

Repeat the song.

Spin in the sanctum of your kitchen at 11:00 PM on a school night.

I doubt if your life’ll change.

Mine hasn’t.

The problems are still right there waitin’ for me.

But maybe,

for an instant,

the heart’s a little bit lighter.

Not better equipped—

just not as heavy.

I don’t know what I’m doing 100% of the time.

But I’ve lived way more life not dancing alone in the kitchen.

So far that hasn’t fixed a thing.

So I choose Shania, “Let’s go girls!”

Maybe we have a little smile and move to the rhythm,

even though we’re broken.

Shut the dishwasher.

Tiptoe puttin’ up the bowls.

Fling the drawers—yours or the cabinets.

Just be, for a bit.

You can be sad again. It’ll be there for you—trust me.

But that wallflower can take a back seat—

for this song, anyway.

(Turns up the volume and hip-bumps the cabinet closed.)