Kick Up Your Heels

I hadn’t been back to Ohio in more than two years. I missed my friends. An invitation from my dear friend Deb came in the mail. It was for her 50th birthday party. Ginny and I accepted.

We drove ten hours, arrived late Friday evening, and helped decorate. I had the privilege to meet many of my old friends and introduce my lovely bride, Ginny, to those who hadn’t had the privilege on our last visit.

The next night, the DJ set up, the caterers brought in the food, and guests began to arrive. There were a lot of new faces in the group. All the old gang was there, but new people had moved into the neighborhood. They were quickly adopted into Deb’s family of friends.
 
Deb is a huge fan of the Scottish heritage and its charm. She writes romance stories based on that era. I had a surprise for her. Ginny and I went downstairs. She helped me get into a Scottish costume. As we adjusted my belt and sash, I asked, “Do you think I should go natural under my kilt?”

“Not in this crowd.” She was quick to reply.

Ginny and I entered the room, where the DJ was set up. The guests were outside eating, talking, and enjoying a wonderful evening. I grabbed the microphone, “Deborah, I want to wish you a happy birthday. For those who don’t know me, my name is Michael. Deb and I have been writing buddies and friends for many years. It’s a real pleasure to be here on her special day. Deb, if you will step in here, I have a little surprise for you.”

She walked in the room, saw me in my costume, and started to laugh. She walked up to me on rubbery legs. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She reached out and wrapped her arms around my shoulders for support.

She gained control of herself, “Michael! I love you! You’re a nut! This is the best birthday present ever.”

I hugged her back, “I love ya, sis.”

Cameras flashed as she lifted the back of my kilt for all to see. My Ginny is a wise woman. Within twenty minutes, my kilt was lifted four times, by different ladies.

I changed back. It wasn’t safe out there in a kilt.

The DJ played ‘50’s Rock-n-Roll all night long. An hour went by. No one danced. The DJ put on The Twist. I rushed to Ginny who was talking to one of my old friends. “Come on, Hun. Let’s dance!”

“Not right now, hun. I’m talking to Ralph. How about in a little bit? Is that OK?”

“OK,” I was disappointed, but I understood. She didn’t want to be rude.

I walked around the patio. The urge to dance was strong. I passed a group of people. A lady standing with her husband caught my eye.

She asked, “Doesn’t anyone do the twist anymore?”

“They sure do!” I said. “Come on! Let’s go!”

I tossed my shoes to the corner—I can’t twist in shoes. We twisted around the room. I twisted low to the floor, spun in a circle, and twisted back up again. In the background, I heard Ginny encouraging me, “You go, baby! Go baby!”
 
The song ended—another began. My partner and I continued to dance. Ginny joined us. Soon, another joined us. I danced with five, then six, then ten to twelve ladies.
 
We stood in a circle, danced, sang, laughed, and smiled.
 
Ginny strutted her stuff. My little gal sure knows how to move. We rarely get the chance to dance together. It was only the third time we have had the chance to strut our stuff together. We made the best of it.

Later that evening, the DJ called me over, “Mike, do you think you, Bruce (Deb’s husband), and a few other guys would be willing to act out ‘The Village People’s’ song, YMCA?”

“I’m game.” I replied.