At this odd time in my life, a woman my age asked me to meet her at a bar where there was dancing.
For many years, I turned down such offers but from my studies of Buddhism, I decided turning down invitations showed a lack of grace. Short of having nothing else on my dance card, I accept as many offers as I can.
A beautiful woman suggested I meet her at a bar where live music was being played. About the closest I've come to this in real life was watching "Urban Cowboy" on cable television in the 1990s. (For the record, there were no mechanical bulls in this joint but there were a number of people whom I could attempt to ride until they threw me off.)
After ordering a drink, this pretty person grabbed my corpse-cold hand and drew me to the tiny dance floor. From memory, I grasped one of her hands and put the other on her back. The music started and I shuffled my feet back and forth, as much as two inches at a time. Some wild ass music was played, something like Billy Joel slowed to a funereal pace.
"I ... don't ... care ... what you say ... anymore ... this is my life."
I tried to dance, to sway to the music or respond to the movement of my dance partner.
I had visions of Lurch from "The Addams Family" laughing at me in his deep voice.
The pretty lady ended up holding my two hands, similar how parents dance with slow children.
Honest to God I tried.
But I haven't attempted to dance in at least a couple of decades. I'm not good at it, I don't feel the music as others do and finally I fear hurting myself given my advanced age. One misstep and I'm on workman's comp for six months.
She was quite gracious and finally asked, "Are you afraid?"
I said yes and she switched to a partner who appeared to be a strapping Mennonite buck.
I powdered and made my way home.
Peace unto Ukraine and peace and the powder to all of my brothers and sisters.