![]() You might wonder why dancing is so grounding for me. Occasionally, it was simply me, myself and the ‘20s crooning of Fats Waller. Sometimes it was visibility that I needed –– to affirm to myself that I could still be seen, heard, witnessed by someone. Some nights, I would stake out a spot by the UMMA Others would find me by the diag, or in the hidden corners and pathways sequestered around campus. Like clockwork, when the sun began to set, I set out to work. So, if you happened across a strange girl dancing by herself on campus, consider the mystery solved. When the walls of August lockdown began to close in, I would rescue myself by dancing When the paranoia of the pandemic set in, or the fear of America’s political future overwhelmed my mind, I danced And when my anxiety loomed overhead with sleepless nights, itchy skin, grinding teeth and tight pain coiled in my chest, I knew what would save me. Junior year does, however, have one redeeming quality: dancing. Junior year, unfortunately, has had a distinct lack of attractive joggers (let alone men) to break up the monotony of quarantine. I never did meet that jogger again –– Jogger-boy, if you’re out there, call me.įreshman year, you could say, started with a bit of a bang, toasted by a dance. Then he thanked me, and jogged off into the dark. That’s right –– I danced with the cute, shirtless jogger, under the moonlight, at midnight, with the Michigan “M” as my witness. Seized by the reckless daring only abs and fairytale moonlight can bring about, I boldly told him, “Just dance it with me, then I’ll know.” ![]() “What dance is that? Do you know how to do this?” Followed by his awkward mime of a completely unintelligible dance move. A very fit, very good-looking, shirtless and male jogger who, against all reason and logic, stopped breathlessly to ask: ![]() A very fit, good-looking, shirtless jogger. Then, like a gratuitous Hallmark movie, out of the darkness appears a jogger. In the way only a freshman or graduating senior can, we even dared to dance teasingly around the block “M.” Now, my blood runs cold just thinking about it. Triple-stepping our way down the Ingalls Mall avenue spinning around street lamps in imitation of “Singing in the Rain” dancing the Charleston on the pavement, on the grass, on the stone benches of the Diag and down the steps of Hatcher Library. It was the happiest I had felt in a long time. Hours spent twirling and whirling the night away left us on unsteady feet. My friend and I leaned against each other, drunk on shared happiness. No, buoyed by the euphoria of a night spent swing dancing in the warm, heated ballrooms of the Michigan League, the cold was more than tolerable. It was freezing, dark and nearing midnight, but we didn’t care. It was freezing, but then again, Michigan always is.
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