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Yesterday in the early morning hours we danced in a pine grove down by the sea. We were out walking the dog and saw the opportunity to turn a wild space into our dance floor, not that we’re good but we do have fun. A background soundtrack and maybe something smoother under foot were the only things missing that might have made this moment with my husband any sweeter. That’s why all the planning for celebrating our thirtieth anniversary together just doesn’t matter.

This whole I-wish-I-could-dance-with-my-husband thing has gotten great. First he wouldn’t even consider it, and now, suddenly, we are dancing out in the wild. Celebrations happen when you least expect them!

Here’s a former posting about the miracle of my husband’s transformation from a sit-on-the-sidelines-and-watch kind of guy to a real live dancer.

Thank You, Cardboard Cutout Dance Partner
Finally, I get to dance with my husband after years of him refusing, all because of some unintentional reverse-psychology. Early in our marriage I announced my desire for us to learn to dance and he likewise announced his contrary desire. Instead, I flitted around the house whenever I heard music. After we had children I took a few classes but it was frustrating waiting on the sidelines to share the lone male student without a partner on every fourth dance. I took ballet for adults, later salsa by the pool on a Mexican vacation.
Twenty-five years into our marriage I realized my regret and contacted an instructor. As I saw it, if my husband had said, yes, after that first invitation I would have been cutting the rug for a quarter century already, but instead my yearning to dance had been undernourished long enough. The teacher promised to call back if any gentlemen without partners called. A week later I met Sam on the dance floor for the first night of a twelve-week session.
Any fears my family may have had of me being swept off my feet were assuaged by my dinner table stories of the gentleman who was no more interested in dance than a cardboard cutout partner I might drag around the dance floor. Sam was not a threat. Even he was not sure what he was doing there, yet everyone witnessed my disgust when he regularly canceled our dance dates. For me, apparently, a reluctant partner was better than none.
That Christmas I put my wish list on the refrigerator and below ‘new garlic press’ I wrote ‘dance lessons with you‘. My instructors must have been smirking every time I showed up to meet Sam, because unbelievably my cardboard partner had helped set the bar so low, now even
my husband could envision himself dancing. As it turned out he had already placed an envelope from the studio under the tree.
My man generously did it for me but when the time came, although he was game, he was secretly afraid it would be too hard. Now he grabs the dish towel from my hand and suddenly, laughingly, transforms me into a dancing queen.
My explanation for all this is that I respectfully left my husband out of it each time he declined to join me. Likewise he respectfully honored my desire to go on without him. In this way I showed my true love for him and he showed his true love for me. Here in the end the fantastic power of these two forces, love and respect has won out, and is the true reason I get to dance with my husband.

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