To the Women Dancing at Elvis Costello

I am assuming there was some alcohol involved.

 

And a feeling of being free of something--the kids, work, the argument you just had with your mother about the eye surgery she needs.

And I want to believe you didn’t know each other before tonight. That you, in the blue tank top, just could not sit still anymore and you wandered down to a less crowded patch of grass and just, what the hell, just danced. Danced like no one was watching. No, even better, like everyone was watching. And digging it.

People like you draw others to them, so one by one they come. The woman with a fanny pack. The woman in the apron dress and black leggings. The one in the shorts jumpsuit. They find each other, dance up to one another and smile that I-love-this-song smile. They raise their hands above their heads and feel it.

You’re 23 again. You’re working your first job and the paycheck actually covers the rent. Not much else, but certainly the rent. Remember those Fridays? When you felt like the week was over and the weekend is all yours. You head down to Trees where a Hawaiian folk punk band plays until 2 AM. You never ask any more, “What’s your major?” but instead, “What do you do?” You dance a lot. Alone. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

That’s what tonight feels like, just like that.

But here’s why I’m writing this letter. It’s not about your dancing, which is wonderful. It’s not your joie de vivre or your agelessness. I’m writing because you found a way to dance to Elvis Costello.

I’ve listened to a lot of Elvis and never, not once, did I feel moved to dance. Not that the man doesn’t have a funky soul and not that he was not  bringing it that night, but white people are really gifted at making great music you can’t dance to. I tap my toes and bob my head, sure, but outright, get up off my feet and get down? No, not Elvis.

You found collectively some hidden beat, some remarkable mysterious groove. And if you can feel that, you must live amazing lives.