Fun in the Sun—And Out

I went to Leo Carillo Beach today (Monday) with some friends who were in town briefly before heading off to England to live for a year. I'll miss them, but it was nice to see them for a little while.

I've decided that that was my last hurrah before diving into my current proofreading project, due at the end of the week. This means I won't be going out to see Reagan's coffin tomorrow. That's the bad news. The good news?—the husband and I are planning to get out there sometime after the President is buried, say in a couple of months. After the crowds have died down. We can look around, then, and I'll pay my respects at that time. Because I suspect Reagan would have wanted me to meet my deadline.

Last Saturday night I was at a wedding reception with my spouse and a lot of old friends, many of whom go back with me 10, 15, 20, 25 years. We danced and I described the scene today for the good professor, who knows some of the players. I explained that at one point I found myself on the floor with Mr. Linguistics—a classical-only guy—who was attempting to dance by moving only his hands.

"Move your hips," I told him. "Your hips. Important."

After that what he was doing started to resemble Actual Dancing almost as much as my own efforts, though I don't delude myself that I can dance any more than I can sing.

The professor reminded me of a time several of us had met in a Berkeley alternative nightclub and danced in our own free-form ways to some African fusion music back in the 80s.

"We were all bad," he told me. "But out of all of us, you enjoyed it the most."

I do. I can't explain it, but I do love to move.

And now I'm sunburned and ready to do things less fun and flashy—but more lucrative.

Even a messy life full of frustrations has its moments of joy.