Dancing my ass off in private

Last year I discovered the joy of putting on rock music and dancing my ass off.  It was a way to move, to exercise, to lighten my spirit and forget the anguish that accompanied the twin catastrophes of Donald Trump and COVID.  Last year's Granny Owl thought it would be so cool to post videos of me, in my pajamas, 68-69 years old, overweight, dancing with abandon and joy, with no care taken of how it looks.  I thought it would give everyone, young and old, every body size, the idea that dancing around the living room can be fun and wonderful and carefree, the chance to be funky and silly and happy.

I'm not so naive that I didn't know I would be judged, and probably often very harshly.  I had already composed a response to those kids who called me ugly or fat or ridiculous or whatever.  I was going to write a post in which I told them that I hoped for them, if they were lucky enough to live as long as I have, that will they have people around them and support them and cheer them on.  I was going to change the world.

This year's Granny Owl is glad I never had Sweet Hubby make videos of me dancing to post on YouTube. These last couple of years have revealed even more blindingly than ever before how cruel, angry, and ugly people can be toward one another, the accusations and put-downs and threats they will hurl at friends, at family, at strangers.  I want nothing to do with any of that.  I don't need to be famous and I don't want to be judged.

So I'll just keep dancing for my own damn enjoyment.  I know I'm cool.  Sweet Hubby knows I'm cool.  That's all I need.