Midlife for Me Means NO MORE RULES!

 


Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

I can't dance if I want to.

I’m not allowed to dance. My son says my dancing freaks him out and if he ever sees me doing it again, he will walk right out the front door and he won’t stop until he gets the image of me dancing out of his head.

I can’t help it. Occasionally I need to bust a move.

Most of the time it happens in the kitchen. It isn’t that I like to cook, ‘because I don’t, but it’s more about the joy that is dishwashing liquid. The elation generated by the idea that I can play with citrus-scented bubbles any time I want can only truly be expressed by interpretive dance.

I am also not allowed to sing. I should clarify that actually.

I am not allowed to sing when family members are listening. Don’t think I can’t sing though, because I can sing like nobody’s business. What I lack in pitch I make up for in volume and showmanship. My songs are often accompanied by hair-flinging circa Cher, closed eyes compliments of Celine and a nice strut and pursed lips courtesy of a geezer named Mick.

I’m a one woman tribute band.

I hate that I’m not allowed to sing because I so love to sing and most especially when I am plugged into the iPod. How in the world is a person not supposed to sing when they have an iPod? I sound freaking fantastic when I have those little ear buds implanted because I have the uncanny ability to sound exactly like everyone from Christina Aguilera to Frank Sinatra.

If you ever want to see my show, feel free to sit in the street in front of my house when the grass is tall. I look forward all week to mowing day because that’s when I’m outside, away from my critical family, and therefore free to do what I do best.

Walk back and forth in straight lines.

I am also free to express myself vocally. I usually open with “Relating to a Psychopath” or “Mack the Knife” and depending upon how responsive the neighbors and/or passing traffic are, I like to close with “Can’t Help Falling in Love”, just like The King.

By that time I'm sweating just like The King, too.

I don’t dance while I’m mowing though for fear my son will catch a glimpse and go on a walk about and I will never hear from him again. And of course because break-dancing and high speed, super sharp blades is really more a Criss Angel thing.

Not for nothing, but I am deeply and emotionally in mad, crazy love with Criss Angel. I’d say I want to have his babies, but I don’t think any woman could carry one to term as I would guess the fetus would continually disappear during ultra sounds. (But of course would momentarily reappear atop the Eiffel Tower with a straight jacket draped over it’s arm.)

In closing I’d like to say that I am firmly against familial banning of one’s basic right to rock whenever the need to do so overcomes them. In fact, I plan on contacting the Barack camp fort wit to be sure I know where he stands on the issue.

Or dances. I so hope he dances on the issue.

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Already posted it. Still love it. Deal with it.















Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

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