Dancing With Myself

The art of dancing alone at home.

A cuter lady dancing alone. I prefer a wooden spoon to a pepper grinder.

Since I was a teenager, I’ve been putting on headphones, playing my favorite music, and pretending to be the lead singer of a wildly influential, Grammy award-winning band.

It started in high school. I had a dope stereo system that I won in my parent’s divorce, headphones with a long cable, and a mop that I taped a tube of lipgloss to the top of, thus creating a microphone stand. I used all this equipment to do “sets”–carefully curated song lists that I pretended to sing.

In my head, I’ve played the Garden or small coffee houses, popping on stage as a surprise guest. The crowd murmured, “Wait…is that-?” Post-school, I envisioned myself surprising my officemates at the holiday party with several powerhouse songs designed to shove my greatness in the face of my most hated coworker. 

“I had no idea she was this talented. And the way she moves...” My nemesis would say. 

During my singing career–yeah, let’s call it a career, I’ve found confidence I don’t have in my daily life. Other times I experienced a catharsis. But I’ve always felt free. Moving without thoughts about what I look like or what anyone in this world thinks of me.

How often in our lives do we get to feel like that?

One night, my bestie Heather and I admitted to each other our hidden hobby. “Wait, shut up! You do that too?” We laughed about it and then made references to it in passing conversations. “OMG, last night I killed at the Grammys!” 

A few years later, I was hanging out at her house, having cocktails, watching movies, and hiding from my family (like I do) and we started playing music. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world for us to end up on opposite sides of her living room, belting out music, dancing and jumping around like we were McCartney and Lennon, Ike and Tina, Bon Jovi and Sambora. 

Were we insane? Probably. Was it fabulous and fun? Absolutely.

She moved to a bigger place that had, what we both stated excitedly was, the perfect living room for dance parties. We took advantage of her new pad and started dance parties with our families. Even the kids joined in because no one can resist dancing the fool when Journey’s “Don't Stop Believing” is blasting. 

After Heather’s dad passed away, everyone was emotionally and physically spent. We headed back to her house (the one with the amazing dance floor) for connection, conversation, and cocktails, and a spontaneous dance party erupted. 

Family members arrived at different times. The later ones, walked in on a full-blown party, complete with spinning disco lights. The folks who had not yet been introduced to the concept of house dancing, had a similar reaction, “What in the actual fuck?!”  Five minutes later they were busting a move. That night, there was a conga line and a heartfelt tribute to her dad as we all sang Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler.”

We danced. We sweated. We celebrated family and love and a life lived. Sure, I threw my back out, but it was a shared experience of joy and release that I’ll never forget.

What I’ve discovered recently, is Heather and I are not alone. I have another friend who told me she had a dance marathon send-off for Tina Turner after her sad passing and another who danced wildly in the aisles of a Seal concert that she went to alone. 

But I don’t get to dance alone as often as I would like these days. Before I had kids, someone should have let me know that I would never be home alone again. Like never. But I can’t place all the blame for my lack of dancing on my kids. The reality is, sometimes the spirit of 12-year-old Robin gets pushed aside by the loud voice of grown up, I’ve got lots of shit to do Robin. So, I’ve decided it’s time to bring more joyful moments in my life where I let go and let’s gooooo! As my son says. 

The other night, Mary went out, and I knew this was my chance to dance. Sure, I could have danced in the living room and made it a family affair, but I was craving that I’m alone and I let it all hang out, modern dance style like, “Hey! Look at me, I’m churning butter!” 

The problem is we live in an apartment without a basement or man cave to escape to. Necessity is the mother of invention though, so I stood behind my bedroom door, hoping I could close it quickly if anyone entered. AirPods in, Spotify playlist on, I danced.

Yes, at one point I opened my eyes to find my son standing in the door. Yes, he scared the crap out of me, and I screamed like Freddy Kruger was about to murder me. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m dancing, man,” I said remembering my joy.

He laughed, slightly uncomfortably, and said, “Okay.” Then went back to his video games.

I danced on, and I felt so mother fucking good.

So this story is really all about me saying, get out there and dance, people. Alone. Together. It don’t matter. Get your groove on. Shake your thing. Let loose. See what happens.

Join me!