alternative flight path

My shadow on the wall revealed the truth in black and light: I can’t dance.

I have developed a rhythm deficiency.

As I cleaned my living room, music shuffled on the stereo. One cut, Slave’s 1979 funk evergreen “Just a Touch of Love,” pumped through the speakers, with its stomping beat and hips-seducing bass line. I tossed the Swiffer aside and surrendered to the groove. I was in a zone, wearing my “funk face”: furrowed brow and bottom lip tucked in. My forehead shone with sweat. In my mind, I was a star “Soul Train” dancer.

Then I spun around and faced the wall.

I noticed a figure shaped like me. The arms flailed wildly, almost like Kermit the Frog’s as he ran from Miss Piggy. This form on the wall was off beat, pumping and jerking like a man gone mad. Was it dancing to the same song? Would you call that dancing?