I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again (and again, and again.) It’s not enough to dance like no one is watching. You can’t feel okay doing things only when you can do them in seclusion–life isn’t lived in seclusion. You’ve got to dance like no one is laughing.
I can guarantee you that someone is always going to be laughing at you. There is always going to be that one twit at the funeral, laughing at how hard you are crying and carrying on*. There is always going to be that one sour puss, who thinks you need to just sit down and act your age**. There is always going to be that one jerk making fun of your fashion sense***. It’s going to happen. You have to decide to live your life for you, not for the twits, sour pusses, and jerks. They won’t respect you for changing to suit them anyway.
You know what makes them respect you–not that their respect is worthy of you–but what makes them respect you is when you keep doing you.
The roller skating rink is teaching me a lot of lessons, these days. It is thrilling to see people of all ages out on wheels, trying tricks, dance moves, and working to see just how fast they can make it around the track. Everyone falls down. The best trick skaters fall down right alongside the little kids. They help each other up, and get going again.
No one laughs. No one pays any attention to the normal humiliation factor of a fall. It’s all about the getting up again, and trying to Wobble on wheels, or Shoot the Duck, or just make it around the floor without holding on to something.
It’s all admiration and camaraderie at the roller rink.
So, when that The Weekend song comes on, and I’m out there red-faced, off-center, and singing along that I can’t feel my face, I am truly loving it. When Chaka Khan comes on, and I’m swinging around backwards to let my backside carry the beat, imaging that my hair is bigger than my shoulders, I am feeling for you, and I DO think I love you. When Taylor Swift’s is playing, and I am being the Butterscotch Pony Princess, I do truly believe we will never go out of style. Rapture, babies. Rapture. (They never play that song. No Blondie. Or Joan Jett. I’m going to make a request.)
Yeah, someone is in that rink laughing at me, but who cares? My good time isn’t subject to snark. My good time is only subject to my own stamina, which is woefully low.
*Me, that one time, when I was 16. I am so, so, so very sorry. You will never know how sorry I am. It weighs on me to this day.
**Also me, those several times. I’m sorry.
***See above and add some more apologies.