The Bookworm vs. the Dance Party

I dared myself to go with my gut

I’ve been packing the novel The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood in my backpack for several weeks with the intent to either read it during my transit commutes to work, during my lunch breaks, or at the playground during my son’s playdates.

But I never do.

Instead, I get preoccupied with reading articles online or decide to walk on my lunch breaks or end up preparing snacks at the playground. When a rare opportunity arrived where I was kidless and spouseless for an evening, I loaded my backpack and headed to the beach.

I was planning to start reading the novel.

I realized that after I secured a spot on the beach, a few women sitting nearby were blaring music through a shoe-boxed sized speaker. The same songs were played over and over again. “Ra Ra Rasputin” (Boney M), “Hips don’t lie” and “This Time for Africa” (Shakira), “We Are the World” (USA for Africa), and few other songs I can’t recall.

Loud music at the beach doesn’t typically bother me, but that evening I was perturbed because I was desperate for alone time, and I needed a quiet space to focus and read my novel. I could handle beach conversations and kids splashing, but the volume of the music was too much. But I already set up my sun tent, secured it down with the pegs, and organized my space.

I didn’t want to move.

But I couldn’t help it. My head was nodding to the music. I started to tap my barefoot. Oh yeah, I meant I didn’t want to move to a spot further down on the beach — away from the music since I was settled in, and I didn’t. I couldn’t move away because my body wanted me to stay with that music.

But I still wanted to start that damn novel.

Loud music

I thought that annoying loud music — that I coincidentally knew most of the lyrics to — needs to stop. I wish those ladies would finish up already and leave the beach so I can read in peace. It would get dark in an hour or so.

I took a deep breath, exhaled, lay myself tummy down on my blanket, and opened my novel to page 1. I read the same paragraph over and over again. I couldn’t focus because the Ra Ra Rasputin lyrics were overwhelming the words on the page.

Ugh.

I covered my ears with my palms and held down the book with my elbows to block out the noise, but I could still hear the music. I zipped myself up in the tent, did the palm and elbow trick again, but I could still hear it…Ra Ra Rasputin…it wouldn’t stop.

Going with my gut

Then it dawned on me.

I unzipped the tent and watched the women dance. They were laughing and having fun. I stepped up onto a log and walked across it back and forth — several times. I kept watching them. I resisted the urge since I arrived at the beach, but it finally overcame me. I was scared, anxious, alone — but I knew I needed to take action.

I nodded my head, put my hands on my hips, and made eye contact. I jumped down from the log, walked over — my heart beating fast, a wave of anxiety shot through me. I stopped a few feet away from the frolicking women. I dislike confrontation but I knew how to handle this one.

I smiled and asked if I could join them.

I wanted to be alone — but I didn’t want to dance alone. Without learning their names — I danced my butt off to Ra Ra Rasputin. When the song ended, the woman in charge of the music told us that the next song would be the last one.

It was “We Are the World.” We joined hands, formed a circle of five women, and sang the chorus together. It had been years since I listened to that song, but the tune flashed me back to1985. Lionel Richie, Stevie Wonder, Kenny Rogers, Cyndi Lauper, and the other amazing musicians — their voices capturing the emotion and intensity of the song and the world cause. That song — suddenly hit me when I danced with those women.

I was free and me again — with my “go with your gut” unplanned action I took — by joining those beautiful women. I wanted to cry — I hadn’t danced in public in years. I wasn’t playing the mom role, wife role, or daughter role. I was playing me — a part of me I lost after motherhood — and I was good.

Spontaneous, unleashed, vibrant.

It was the 80s when I was a little girl who danced in front of my bedroom mirror or the living room with my parents as my audience and at every awkward high school dance and later on — in my full make-up and high heels at the nightclubs.

My body was aching to dance; I set free my urge — and I didn’t care who was watching.

When the book silence I was waiting for finally came — when she turned off the music, I didn’t want it.

I wanted to keep dancing.

We introduced ourselves, hugged, and took group photos. The woman with the music left, and the remaining women and I gathered at my tent, talked, laughed, and they invited me to their next beach dance party.

My alone time turned into a dance party.

My alone time, quiet space, and Margaret Atwood will need to wait. That day— the beach was calling me to go with my gut, rejoice and revive my dancing spirit with an unexpected dance party with strangers.

Sometimes plans don’t turn out the way I want. But sometimes, they turn into something spontaneous that I really need. Go with your gut — and dance. Nobody’s really watching, and if they are, who cares? Keep dancing. Be you — dance your butt off — it will light your fire.

Mary Chang is an award-winning short story fiction writer, memoir writer, and blogger. She’s also a parent, fitness enthusiast and is dancing again!

Fueled by cartwheels, laughter, and encouraging people to shine. Read her blog at www.marychangstorywriter.com.