No, I’m not talking about Kirstie Alley’s inventive full body splat atop her partner Maks on Dancing With The Stars, though it was one of the finest moments in recent television history.
While Jeanne was having a go at the hora at Ben’s Bar Mitzvah, I dominated the dance floor with gyrations more likely to suggest an immediate need for the Heimlich Maneuver. The joyous spirit racing round my head and heart felt like Snoopy’s happy dance, but the actual squats, twists, and – my signature move of the day – the Flash, when I repeatedly ripped open the snaps on my jacket – were less tripping the light fantastic, more epileptic seizure. Thankfully, I was wearing a shell under my mackinaw, lessening the trauma perpetrated upon unsuspecting thirteen year olds.
And though I managed to trap both Cousin Marijane and Hot Pants in some cheek-to-cheek twirls, along with a short lived revisiting of The Bump with Cousin Wil, I was all alone out there. All alone, boogeying with happiness to be among my folk.
Unlike Jeanne, I cannot blame my rug cutting on booze. As ever, it was just me, high on life.