The Russian and I are going to a wedding this weekend.
And not to brag or anything, but we’re pretty good at wedding dancing.
Wedding dancing requires that perfect combination of class and awkwardness, which we can easily achieve if we dress nicely and then proceed to act, well, as we normally do. Wedding dancing requires the ability to pseudo-waltz, swing, and twirl while still taking part in original moves like my signature, the Flappy Bird, and his, the Gravedigger. Of course, we must also be proficient in old favorites such as the Chicken Dance, Electric Slide, and all variations of Don’t Stop Believin’.
Last year at a wedding someone asked us if we took lessons.
“Oh bless your heart, how sweet of you,” I more or less said.
While I like to think we are good, and there is something about dressing up and dancing while music plays and the stars come out, weddings are fun because they’re like a concentrated reminder of something we do every day.
Not literally, which explains our lack of technical finesse. We dance daily by living, by taking joy, by being awkward, by having fun. And there’s not a doubt in my mind that I was sent the husband I have because he reminds me to have fun. I need to remember it’s okay, necessary even. I need to notice every little moment of magic, when silent music plays and invisible stars come out.
I need to remember to remind myself.
Don’t forget to dance.