Every so often (read: every day) when I return from a long day of crime-fighting, butt-kicking legal work, I arrive at an empty and dark apartment. My two roommates– products of the finance system– are hours away from their professional departures. And so I take advantage of those precious moments of silence… and have spontaneous dance parties.
No, I don’t mean in the hot and sweaty, STD-transmitting dance floor sense. Inspired by a particular Gentile Giant’s tweet, I recently created a doo-wop station on Pandora, and in the throws of spontaneity, I groove to The Temptations’ “Build Me Up Buttercup” and other such 1960s Billboard 100 singles.
As a child raised on Motown tunes, I take particular pleasure in jiving to singers with a hell of a lot more soul than this here pasty girl is ever going to have. More importantly, though, I feel inspired to smile, to move, to get jiggy with it, if you will.
However, in the midst of one impassioned dance party, I neglected to close the shades on my living room window– largely because my roommates and I are too cheap to have purchased shades– and as a result encountered a pair of wandering Asian eyes.
Now I should preface this encounter by stating I am no Tom Cruise, circa Risky Business. When I dance, I am fully clothed and sans-sunglasses. I do, however, have a tendency to use a water bottle as a mock microphone (insert requisite judgment here).
And while channeling my inner Diana Ross on this particular occasion, I busted a move, exposed a wee bit more elbow than I intended, and encountered two elderly Asian gentlemen gazing at me from the neighboring apartment building.
I paused, contemplated the consequences of an elbow expose, and determined to politely smile before retreating to the interior of my apartment. From this encounter I learned a valuable lesson: shades were invented for a reason so channel some of the hundreds you spend on morning lattes into buying a simple beige set for your living room. Or risk becoming an instant youtube sensation (read: embarrassment).