All these years, I thought I wanted my special someone to be a fantastic dancer who could sweep me off my feet. He’d have to, to make up for my two left ones. I always thought it would be the most romantic thing in the world to glide across the ballroom dance floor with my prince charming.
I’ve changed my mind.
I want my special someone to be a horrendous dancer. Just abysmal. An absurd jingle-jangle of limbs that you can’t make sense of, because you’re too busy laughing your guts out watching.
And I want to dance with this someone — in the privacy of our own apartment — stomping around and waving our arms with wild abandon to the sound of our Disney Favorites playlist on shuffle, not caring how ridiculous we look, because goshdarnit, we’re having the time of our lives.