No one would mistake me for a great dancer. But how I love to dance and imagine that I am a great dancer. As I shimmy to my favorite salsa mix on any given morning, I dream of someone saying, ​“Ooh, look at her! She’s pretty good for an old, short, fat white lady!” And honestly it just makes me smile. To feel the music in my old, short, fat white bones. I can’t keep from smiling when I dance freely. 

The other night we saw Pink Martini at the Rooftop at Pier 17. In the bathroom, I admired the dress of a young(er) woman: a knee-length, frothy aqua twirly thing with a pink sash. It fit her perfectly, she wore a flower in her headband, and she sparkled at the compliment. ​“It’s a Pink Martini night!” she said.

The music came up and the singer announced, ​“Okay, this one is to dance to. I hope you’ll all get up!” Of course I dragged my husband out there. I think I can dance a tiny bit better than he can, but he is always game. There were legions grooving in the aisle, and then — a few songs later — aqua dress approached me and pulled me up. Heck yes! She had been dancing, expertly, all along. Then she pulled the guy sitting behind me out of his seat, and suddenly he and I were dancing and well, he was a much better dancer than either me or my husband, but I believe that a great dancer can make their partner look fantastic. And so I felt fantastic and grinned the whole time as he spun me. The night steamed, the moon rose over the Brooklyn Bridge, we all sweated so happily.

Walking back to our car, I asked my husband, ​“Do I look like a total idiot out there?” No, he said cautiously. I have asked him this before. ​“Well, do I look like a good dancer?” He hedged. ​“You look like you’re having a great time.”

He has said this before too. At that moment, we ran into the conga player going into his hotel. We gushed like he was a rock star and thanked him for such a spectacular evening. 

And that was plenty for me.