Footloose

Last night John and I attended his company's holiday party, and we had a fabulous time!  We closed down the joint!  We were literally the last two people on the dance floor, and as my husband is so proud of saying "We were the last coats!"  meaning, our coats were the last ones hanging in the coat check when we left.  The party was that fun.

I also discovered where The Boy gets the dance gene.  From his father.  Let me tell you people, my man can DANCE!  John (after several glasses of wine) boogied his heart out to the point where people were handing him their drink tickets as if they were Mardi Gras beads.  For my part, I attempted to dance with him, but my style of dance is limited to step-touch-step-touch with occasional Saturday Night Fever arms thrown in for fun.  John has these elaborate moves that include fully acting out the lyrics in an interpretive dance.  It's difficult to keep up.  He's kind of got a Napoleon Dynamite thing going on where it's totally unexpected that that boy can move!  My only complaint with John's dancing is that when we dance as a couple he never warns me before he intends to twirl me, which last night, often resulted in either my tripping, running into someone else or a scream of surprise when I'm suddenly flung across the dance floor.  I was very proud to have been John's date last night though.  I found myself watching him out there grooving to the music and thinking "Damn! I get to go home with that guy! I am one lucky woman."