The elevator door slid shut and I broke into a jig. I hopped in samba time, waved my arms wildly, sang in time to the music of my feet.
We reached my floor, the door slid open, and I walked out, sober as ever, ghost of a grin…if you know where to look.
Yup. I’m an elevator dancer. Are you?
Maybe you play air guitar in the shower. Hum on the toilet. Pound out a rhythm on the steering wheel as you sing down the highway. Make faces at the drive-up window.
I can’t quite figure out why I dance in elevators; it’s not because I’m shy and bashful in public. I strike up conversations with perfect strangers (and take their pictures). My sisters refused to walk with me in malls because I sang out loud as we shopped. (I was hurt–I thought my singing was pretty good).
And the way to tell if I’m in the groove on work projects is to watch the frequency of headrolls as I sing along with whatever’s on the headphones. (One good reason that I don’t do well in cubicles)
Apparently, though, dancing is a private matter because it ONLY happens when I’m alone, and mostly when I’m in elevators.
Maybe that’s because I’m a lousy dancer. Maybe it’s because the only elevators I encounter usually involve workplace stuff and I’m so sober and level-headed the rest of the time at work (don’t laugh, coworkers!) that I just have to kick loose in this small, private space.
For the short time it takes to reach my floor, I can be absolutely free. And so I choose to spend that time being absolutely silly.
On the way back up just now I added a new move: I stuck out my tongue and blew a raspberry at the door. AND I waggled my fingers in my ears.
It felt great.