Get your feet wet

Cool as Kim Deal

You know how some evenings you’re in the kitchen, lazily sautéing a thing or three and remembering the gold-sand beaches of Mykonos, when the cat sets to wailing at the back door and you welcome his rain-sopped howls with, “There he is, here’s my man,” mopping at the sodden fur with a dishtowel and rising above his mewlish complaints with, “Yes, yes, here comes my man,” shoulders and hips swinging into a lazy samba, the music and the moment overtaking you, and the next thing you know, you’re singing and dancing at the top of your lungs and legs…

And precisely then, the heretofore silent small children absorbed in homework at the dining room table rupture into laughter, and the seven-year-old (recognizing she’ll be in charge once you’re institutionalized) demands to know, “What are you doing?

And you reply, “Obviously, I was singing to and dancing with the cat. Because Leroy Brown LOVES to dance. And the Pixies are his favorite band. Like you don’t do it ALL THE TIME.”

(And then you quietly note to yourself: singing to and dancing with the cat… cause for concern. Talking to myself on end: still kosher.)

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