I used to go dancing a lot, nearly every weekend. Same place, certainly nothing fancy, but there was a proper DJ, a few good friends, and a fancy to flirt with. Oh it was fun! Yet, now, I don’t go as much. In truth, it’s been years, even though I love to dance, love to hear the driving beat matching my pounding pulse, love to shake what the Good Lord gave me. Yes, I know how. I don’t get out there on the floor only after I’ve had one too many making every step a misstep, every turn a potential disaster, and I certainly don’t do that “White Girl” dance that looks more like there’s a queue for the loo than an expression of rhythmic ecstasy going on.