That Sort of Dancing is a Young Man's Game

And you ain't that young. Or flexible.

I used to make up dances for Kara that amused her endlessly for various reasons, not the least of which was my willingness to humiliate myself for the sake of a good laugh. Unfortunately for us both, I was working out the final kinks in my magnum opus when I succumbed to injury. For roughly a year, I had been working tirelessly on my “Wacky Waving Inflatable Tube Guy” dance. She was chomping at the bit for this one too, as I would occasionally offer her tantalizing previews the closer I came to perfecting my transitions. The dips and rises, my slow-building single-limbed shimmies, and my finishing move - a frantic flailing of phalanges. Dare I say - it was beautiful. 

That was when, either due to the ever-tightening limitations of age or just plain hubris, I attempted a back dip in practice which instantly and unceremoniously relegated me to a floor-bound puddle of pain. A middle-aged cautionary tale. For the next 20 minutes or so, I laid half on a rug and half on the beautiful hardwoods of our apartment. Carefully shifting and fruitlessly attempting actions distantly akin to stretches, while my lower back throbbed, tingled, and vehemently resisted. During this time I also discovered that our seemingly clean rugs and hardwood floors were actually home to a kingdom of foulness lorded over by foot odor and populated by varying forms of feline detritus. It was gross.