My little dancer
Azita has always loved dancing. When she was an infant she would bob her head a little, flail her arms and wiggle around as best as she could whenever she would hear a beat. Most of her dancing since she started walking has consisted of her walking, running or galloping around in a circle. Occasionally, believe it or not, she actually plays air guitar. Don’t look at me. She learned it from Muno on Yo Gabba Gabba. Honest. I only play air guitar in private.
Lately, however, her dancing has taken a different tone. She is more expressive in her movements. She moves her arms in slow waving motions, sometimes even flexing and pointing her fingers while turning her hand like only a budding Bollywood dancer could.
At times she seems to be doing her best impression of Martha Graham. She moves her torso slowly from side to side, lunging in an opposing motion. Occasionally she lifts a leg off to the side or the back, keeping her toes perfectly pointed. It’s an amazing thing, and I can’t help but get ridiculously happy when she’s dancing.
Inevitably I end up dancing with her. This is impressive mostly because I am the very definition of a wallflower when it comes to dancing. I will do almost anything to avoid it. I have been known to play a little tug of war with family members who have tried to pull me out onto the dance floor at parties. I know it looks ridiculous when I do this, but I feel even more ridiculous when I dance. I just know people are laughing at me.
When Azita dances, though, I forget about all of that. I sing along with the music. She grabs my hands, and we dance together. I don’t care who is looking, nor do I care what they think. We dance with abandon. And it’s the best feeling in the world.
