I’m not much of a dancer. During grad school days, I found some of my intellectually inspired get-togethers, turn into dance parties – in my own home, thanks to two Soumitrees. I tried hiding the music system, only to find them capable of bringing their own the next time. I have scars to show from being physically dragged to the dance floor. Dancing is not my thing. But then, at home, sometimes, music in the background is known to move my backside.
I’ve developed a penchant for choosing my Bichon Frise as my rhythmic confidant. At times, we grace the floor in a delicate ballet, but when Dr. Alban fuels my groove, it transforms into my rendition of an African dance – vibrant leaps and arrhythemic motions at play. That is, until Coco devises her escape, wriggling free from my grasp and sprinting to safety.
You may also find indulgent children responding to my moves if only to mock me. There is then the beautiful Dr. K. Without fail she will lift her eyes from the glowing screen, liken my enthusiasm to a toddler and get back to work smiling.
As my comrades can attest, in matters of the heart, I’m a man of unwavering perseverance. When she departs her throne for a fleeting errand, I spy a window to take my chance.
Stealthily approaching from behind, I clasp her hips and showcase my rhythmic flair. Unfailingly, she reciprocates, swaying gently while progressing towards her destination—be it the cupboard to grasp a cup or the fridge to draw some water—before resuming her duties, our harmonious sway lingering in-between.
Yet, one fateful day, she pivoted to face me, draping her arms upon my shoulders, laughing, as she endeavored to match my unorthodox cadence. As I mentally marked this lucky day onto the calendar, I saw the crease between her brows narrow. Her animated face transformed into a stoic mask, eyes locked in a powerful, unwavering focus zeroing in on my nose!
Just a friendly reminder: should you find yourself under the intense gaze of a beautiful woman locked onto your nose, don’t hold your breath for a storybook romance to unfold—especially if she happens to have surgical training under her belt.
“There’s a pimple on your nose,” she proclaimed. If you’re a devoted follower of my blog, you’ll know K is a woman of swift action. Within moments, she had assembled the necessary supplies: alcohol (the variety unfit for dancing), a lancet, and a tissue. The hand that formerly embraced my shoulders now besieged my nose, while a lancet pierced my skin to the soundtrack of the Bee Gees’ timeless query, “How deep is your love?”
She admired the white nectar of her love’s labor, imparted a medical lecture, and returned to her digital endeavors. Had I married a less attentive mate, a dance may have been my destiny. However, in selecting an attentive spouse, I gained a story. A life filled with tales, it would seem, is a life well-spent.
Ps. I tried hard to get MidJourney to portray a pot bellied Indian man dancing with a lanky blonde surgeon…no luck.