That Girl from Derwent dwells on the value of religion this Christmas.
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When I was a kid, I always wanted to dance. I’d watch the films, you know, Dirty Dancing, Strictly Ballroom, Footloose… and I’d think, yeah, I want to do that. As you can see from this selection of films, it didn’t matter what kind of dancing, I just wanted to dance. While the credits rolled I’d be there trying to imitate the moves I’d seen… and then I’d catch sight of myself in the mirror and realise how ridiculous I looked.
What I envied was the confidence. I wanted to be able to let go and dance and not care what I looked like - because, let’s face it, we either look good dancing, or we really, really don’t and that’s just the way it is - we shouldn’t worry about it.
So when I came to University - from a small town with a total of zilch clubs - I decided I’d give the whole dancing thing a proper go. Okay, so it wouldn’t exactly be Strictly Ballroom, or even Footloose in this day and age (shame on us) but the principle was still the same: to have fun. So I hit the clubs (and the alcohol) and gave it all I had. Result? I have no idea how atrocious I looked when I danced, but damn did I enjoy myself. Here I was, for the first time, totally in my element, totally confident and where I wanted to be. And I wasn’t dancing for any guys, not even to look good in front of my female peers, I was dancing for myself.
This term however, opportunities for dancing have become distinctly limited and I miss it.
All I seem to do is work and work and cook and clean and wash and… I feel like I’m turning middle-aged before I’ve even lived through my twenties. I never go out, I get in from work and collapse on the sofa, knackered, watch a bit of TV and go to sleep. Yes, I have money, but I have no time to spend it; Ziggy’s has been a no go due to full days on campus on Wednesdays and Thursdays and an overwhelming desire for sleep that I swear I didn’t used to have.
But enough moaning. I realised tonight that I have no need to moan. I don’t want to be one of those writers who just whine about how life used to be good, and now they are too busy to have fun, and how life is rubbish, when really it’s all their fault they’re not making the best of things…
So here goes: life is fantastic. The world is beautiful. Walking home from campus the other night, I realised that you don’t have to be in a club to dance. You don’t have to have music. You just have to be happy. It was raining and I was on my own, but I was practically skipping - and I hadn‘t even been drinking. I text my friend telling them life was good and danced in the street.
Because there’s a time for dancing. And that time is now.
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