Kitchen Dancing

One of the greatest, I mean greatest, and most undermentioned benefits of being in Middle Age is that the kids are, well, out. Of the house I mean. As parents we did our best to impart what we knew as wisdom and sage teaching (?), and we helped them venture out to Adult; to conquer their world and make their own way.

Our kids are killing it. We’re very proud of each of them.

But (and), that makes us (yep) Empty Nesters. Middle Age Empty Nesters. We Love our kids, each and every one, but those of you that have reached (survived at all costs to crash prostrate and naked on the beach of) Middle Age, know of what I speak (Ceremony, fanfare, salutes deserved).

And one of the greatest benefits of being an Empty Nester is that we get to do things, grown up things, (adult things, uh-huh), without the fear of being walked in on (You know what I’m talking about).

Like Kitchen Dancing.

Oh yeah.
(said really slowly, like Barry White would say it).

Most summer evenings Rachel and I are in the pool that we built. I’ve mentioned it before. I wrap up my summer-off days of bee-wars, wood splitting, garden chores, pool cleaning, lawn care, general repairs, and house cleaning, she gets back from the increasingly-complicated commute, we make an adult beverage, grab the sunscreen, my Cowboy Hat, the top 40 country music and speaker, and we hit the pool.

It’s Heavenly. We float and talk and unpack the day and sing and sip and plan and solve and posit and dream and laugh. We float-dance too (It’s a thing).

We’re usually out too long (Ok, time gets away. We’re always out too long). Suddenly it’s 7:48pm and the Idaho summer sun gains an angle. And we’re starving.

Rachel jumps out and grabs three or four things from the gardens and heads up to figure out a healthy dinner. I close up the pool and umbrella and shed and garage and grab the music (which is still probably only slightly just a bit too loud) and follow.

It happens when I enter the kitchen, music in hand: Jason or Kenny or Luke. We really can’t help it. There’s music in the house. Suddenly it’s just Dance On: barefoot, drippy, Cowboy Hat, hands in the air. Bustin’ our Middle Age groove.

And we get after it. Around the bar. It’s serious. Those of you that have seen us dance know. This is no Moonlight Sonata. It’s a cross between High Intensity Training and sexy combat (?), right in the middle of slicing the zucchini (I even throw in some Pulp Fiction, the Batusi, or a new move I learned on Youtube). And because we’re in our kitchen, and there’s no one to walk in on us, and we’re in that spectacular place that is Middle Age Love, we really get after it (uh huh, you know what).

It’s just The Best.
Idaho summer nights.
Sunned. Pool clean.
Kitchen Dancing.
Breathless.
Starving. Happy.
Middle Age.

Lord we laugh and catch our breath. And we always finish the song.

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MiddleAgeMark

Observations, lessons learned, perspectives, and anecdotes from the Grand Adventure of Middle Age as Rachel and I chase our dreams. I welcome you to follow along and join the adventure.

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