Once upon a time, I had a big fancy office with my name on the door. It was seriously humongous. I didn’t even have enough furniture to fill it. It was also during this time that I had interns (more than one) and an assistant working for me.
Well, the north wall of this big fancy office was made of windows–corner to corner, floor to ceiling. And this wall of windows looked out on South Temple Street in Salt Lake City. I had a view of the gardens on Temple Square and could see all the comings and goings of the LDS Church Administration Building. In fact, as a side note, my friend Jessica, who worked in the office next to me, and I played Apostle Bingo for months–we made game cards and everything–to see who could sight the most Apostles on Temple Square.
But anyway, like I said, I had a big, fancy office with a big, fancy wall of windows, and my name was on the door (once upon a time). You would think that some amount of decorum and dignity would come with such a work space. Let me assure you–it didn’t.
Case in point: Whenever something great happened, namely, placing a great story for one of my recording artists with the media, or creating a killer press kit wherein my writing skills wowed even me … we would dance. Nay. We would DANCE! I would crank the music on my speakers (this was a record label that I worked at after all), call the interns and Jessica (she was the booking agent) in, and we would celebrate with a good old-fashioned dance party.
In fact, one time we were dancing and a group of high school students on a field trip were walking on the sidewalk below. It was hilarious to see the ripple effect as one of them saw us, nudged his neighbor, and pointed up. Pretty soon the whole group was staring, which then gave way to cheering, and then … dancing with us. It was fantastic.
Well. It’s been a while since I had that big, fancy office (it was once upon a time, after all). Instead of business suits, I wear yoga pants. Oh alright! Most of the time I wear pajamas. Sheesh! It’s not that big’a deal. I don’t have a nice, shiny desk, but I do have a freakin’ cushy couch. I have no interns or assistants, it’s just me, myself, and I. (And the three of us have some pretty interesting conversations by the water cooler, if you must know. Oh alright. We don’t have a water cooler, but we DO have a fully stocked refrigerator.)
Anyhow my point is this (you were wondering when we’d get to that weren’t you?): While I’m not a great dancer (in my heart I am. In my heart I’m Debbie Allen. From Fame? Remember? Oh nevermind. Actually I always wanted to be CoCo or the girl who played the cello in the empty practice room. What was her name?). Wait. Where was I? Oh right. So even though I’m not a great dancer, and even though I’m by myself, I think it’s time to reinstate the practice of mid-day dance parties.
Why? Because I have a lot to celebrate. Even when I don’t think I do. And because I’m certain that if I have enough dance parties, I’ll eventually look like this:
OK. Maybe not.
But at least I’m celebrating!
Maybe I’ll even open the blinds and if I’m lucky the neighbor kids will walk by and join in.
*In case you’re wondering, those are pictures I took of my baby sister Kaycie at her final hip hop showcase at BYU last week. She’s a rockstar. And she’s hot.
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