From the Car Guy - Apr 11
DANCING IN THE NEON
By Lance Lambert
An embarrassing secret is going to be shared with you.
Many decades ago dancing was a fun activity that I engaged in on a regular basis. My high school sweetheart and I attended all of the school dances and took great pride in dancing to every song played by the band. We even created a few routines that, we thought, assured that we were considered great dancers.
As a young man I frequented a few favorite bars that had dance floors and live music. These establishments provided single gentlemen, such as myself, the opportunity to ask a young woman to dance and, if a few more dances followed, possibly the beginning of a relationship.
I enjoyed dancing in those days but don’t care much for dancing in public now. In fact I don’t enjoy it at all. The truth is that I’d rather dig ditches in my boxers during a hail storm in sub zero temperatures than dance. I’d rather walk down the middle of the freeway eating steamed liver while dressed as Dolly Parton than dance. I’d rather……well; I think you get the idea. This is why the secret that I’m about to share with you is also a mystery.
I enjoy dancing in my garage.
Recently I was having a pleasant evening alone futzing in the garage. The radio was playing a country song and I was enjoying a libation. The evening was innocent (Honest officer, I’ve only had two beers) and all was right with the world. The garage provides a haven where the world spins correctly and the disastrous scenarios that are unendingly yelled out of our TVs and computers are forgotten.
It was then and there that it happened.
I didn’t consciously decide to begin dancing; it just happened. It was so unconscious that I was shuffling around the garage before noticing what I was doing. Then it got even worse (better?). I really got into it. All of the old dance steps from high school came back to me and a sweat was being worked up. The song ended and I stood there panting in the glow of neon lights that grace the walls of the garage while I wondered what the heck had just happened? Was there a dangerously high level of carbon monoxide or neon gas in the garage? Were there to many paint cans with the tops left open? Had the single Corona I consumed been accidently filled with bourbon? Whatever it was I liked it.
I was alone and didn’t feel any judging eyes upon me. No one was there to correct my dance “technique” or snicker and tell me how ridiculous I looked. It was just me. Hey! Wait! That’s it! The mystery has been solved; actually I was not alone. I was dancing with one of my best friends; the garage.
The garage does not judge me; it only wants to provide a sanctuary of joy and comfort. It’s a place that is filled with great memories and promises of a great future. It only wants to take me by the hand and swing me around until I’m consumed with both peace and jubilance. It is my very good friend.
This dancing activity has taken place a few more times and will likely happen again. Should I be embarrassed by this activity? Are the gyrations of a slightly overweight and aging car guy dancing amongst restored gas pumps and greasy car parts to be avoided? No, because my dance partner is as happy and carefree as I am and doesn’t care how silly I look.
Excuse me garage, may I have the next dance?