I don’t wanna be an old man anymore. It’s been a year or two since I was out on the floor

It was Julie’s birthday yesterday. Apparently she turned 26, which is interesting because for the last 9 years that I’ve known her, she’s been older than me. I've never been good at math, but I’m sensing a bit of revisionist history here. Last night M and I had dinner with Julie, Debbie and Julie’s fantabulous Mom. And you’d think that it would be birthday enough for this young woman, but no. It’s like a weekend marathon of Julie joy. Oscar watching on Sunday and tomorrow night she’s making me go out to a club. Yup, that’s right. I’m going out to dance.

You’d think given my many years of dance training and the many nights I spent at the Trasheteria in University that I would be stoked about this. In all honesty I’m a little worried. I over-think things, yes, but I’m not as much concerned about dancing badly or not having a good time (because the company is going to be stellar). What I’m worried about is not being able to boogie at all. Having the knees of an 80-year-old man who carried large rocks for a living at 27 makes me less than optimistic about my chances of tearing up the dance floor like I did in the old days. I worry that all I’ll be tearing up will be my ligaments. Can you imagine if I actually manage to further injure myself on the dance floor? This could be more embarrassing than the scar I have on my forehead from an ill-fated run-in with the vacuum cleaner. Maybe I could convince the entire club to move into a nearly swimming pool, thereby making it a low-impact dance-a-thon?

Today’s sing-a-long song: “Good Life” by Weezer.

HRH