I've always wanted to be a dancer. Not the kind of dancer who joins dance troupes or groups or makes any money at it, just the kind of dancer who has no qualms about getting out on the dance floor and dancing. Without reservation. Like the Single Ladies. Or the Wrinkled Ladies. Or maybe even something like this:

Or not. Only because I'd need to dance a whole lot more than I do now to make that happen. And wear high heels for the woman's part, which I don't. Or be a man for the man's part, which I'm not.

I had my chance to dance at BlogHer '11. Dancing along the lines of those single ladies. With lots of other ladies. I didn't take advantage of that chance, though, because although I dance regularly when no one's watching, I surely won't do it in public. At least not until I've had far too many drinks to care what anyone's thinking. I wasn't willing to get to the Happy Dance state on the BlogHer party dance floors when my goal for the gig was to represent my blog, my brand, my fellow Boomer grandparent bloggers, not to shake my grandma groove thang.

In private, I dance a lot. I dance by myself. I dance with the dogs. I host dance parties with Bubby each and every time we're together.

I have even, believe it or not, taken dance lessons. In preparation for Megan and Preston's wedding five years ago, Jim and I attended a few ballroom dance classes. We learned, well, were at least shown the steps to the waltz, fox trot, rumba, and more. And we enjoyed it, even ended up doing okay on the dance floor during our daughter's reception. But once the wedding bells stopped ringing, dance steps were nada, zip, zilch. Even at weddings we've attended since, even in the privacy of our own home.

And that makes me sad. Because I want to be a dancer. I want to glide across the dance floor in my partner's arms. I want to merengue and cha-cha. I want to try club dancing before I'm so old the slightest snap or pop would surely pop me right into traction. I'd even be happy to join a line dance that goes beyond the Chicken Dance. (I have had my share of Chicken Dances.)

I want to try all those. In public. With abandon.

Without having to down six 7&7s in advance in order to get up the nerve.

The last time I visited Bubby, we had our usual dance party. Baby Mac was napping, Roxy the dog was moved out of the way, and the Toddler Tunes were cranked. Bubby and I moved. We grooved. We shook our homemade macaroni music-maker shakers to the beat. (Macaroni music-maker shakers are another story, for another day.) I put Bubby on my shoulders and we danced like never before, through the family room, the kitchen, the living room and more.

Until it was Bubby's turn to choose the next moves.

Bubby's choice for further dance party play was the "I'm going to hide and you call out for your lost dance partner" move. Which we did. Bubby hid behind the ottoman, I cried out how sad and lonely I was, all alone on the dance floor.

"Where or where could my dance partner be?" I called out. Soon Bubby magically appeared. He peaked from behind the ottoman, then ran to stand before me, ready to get down with Gramma. I took his hand, and together we beeped and bopped to the current Toddler Tunes selection.

Next time I'm in public, wanting to dance but too afraid to step out onto the floor, I'm going to try the technique that worked so well in Bubby's game. I'm going to call out to be joined on the dance floor by my long-lost partner.

Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe the dance partner who joins me will be the one who's held me back from boogie-ing before.

In other words, maybe the one to join me will be me.

Today's question:

Where is your favorite place to bust a move?