You Should Be Dancing

I have been playing a lot of games with myself over the past week. I chastise myself for using toilet paper, as is my custom, for blowing my nose. And each time I do, aside from the guilt I feel for depriving my household of a commodity that will eventually become legal tender, I am certain that I am feeling the very first wave of symptoms. You know the ones. The ones that signal death is right outside the door.
Then there's the ever-present counter in my brain that ticks off each incidence of face touching. I am someone who prides himself on not feeling self-conscious, but I have a lot of face. It goes all the way from my chin up and over to the back of my neck. It's a lot of real estate, and again I am certain that the last time I rub my eyes will be the last time I rub my eyes.
But I wake up the next morning, feeling the lethargy associated with being cooped up in our coop together, and I look for distractions that don't necessarily involve Al Gore's Internet. I have been going on a run or a walk each day. Keep breathing. Keep moving. On some of those walks, my wife comes along because we are each other's best entertainment.
Did I mention that my wife is a Zumba instructor? Certified.
So one morning, rather than fretting over toilet paper or face touching, I asked if she wouldn't mind leading a private class in our living room. As long as I could pick the music. If I was going to do this thing, I wanted it to be an experience that felt in some way familiar.
So we moved the coffee table out of the living room, and dialed up my custom playlist. I stood across the rug from my wife as she started in, with a little warm-up, then right into the choreography of exercise. As I attempted to mirror her box steps and kick turns, I waved my hands tentatively because I felt hopelessly out of my depth. But every so often, I would turn around and find we were moving in unison, and there was a sparkle of joy. Something had been missing from our initial days of internment. Dancing. As if no one was looking.