Wednesday 13 February 2013


The King has discovered the power of dance. Or shall I say, the sheer manic joy of careening around the room like someone with his pants on fire. My husband says he has definitely inherited this from me; if you’ve ever seen me on the dance floor, you’d know I have very few inhibitions or self control – kind of a like a three year old really. I am admittedly the least shy person when it comes to getting my freak to the King of course.

As an observer and a fellow lover of dance, I fully appreciate watching the King work out all his moves with not a self conscious bone in his body – if only we could all remain this way, as I truly believe dance is up there with massage in terms of its therapeutic properties. At the moment, I’ve deemed the King’s style as 'interpretive' dance in the most expansive use of the word. He twirls, he jumps, he falls down on the ground and growls like a lion, he pushes on his stomach as if he has buttons like some sort of robot (have no clue where this came from) and he often uses props such as cars, trucks or tractors. (But of course). It’s pretty hysterical to watch him work it all out as he goes along. His signature move involves my yoga mat, which he rolls out in the middle of the song, and does some sort of downward dog gyrating move that involves his legs moving up and down. The King is nothing but unique.

He also tries to incorporate me into his dance routines, which means me having to spin around and around in circles with him while Beyoncé sings the house down (on the radio of course. Having her in person is beyond our budget). I of course do my best to accommodate his wishes until I remember that I have a bad back and am easily prone to vertigo, which means in a matter of minutes, I’m clutching onto a chair thinking I’m going to vomit and will have to call the chiropractor. Not to mention, the King usually likes to break into dance in the evening – I’m sensing he’s feeling his groove when the sun goes down – which means by then I’m so dead on my feet, that I simply sway along hoping he won’t notice that my eyes are closed.

Then again, when the mood strikes me, and the right song comes on, I’m perfectly able to put aside my fatigue and unleash my inner lunatic. This is usually the moment my husband gets home from work, looks at the King and I and shakes his head (probably) thinking to himself, ‘dear god, not another person to embarrass me at parties.’ I of course tell him to check his ego at the door and shake his moneymaker, we’ve got some dancing to do. 


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