I don’t dance.

But when Nora was a baby, and she had a hard time sleeping, I would take her into the living room and put on music softly and cradle her in my arms, dancing around the room.

The record I remember playing most – it was my favorite at the time, I guess – was Bonnie Raitt’s Takin’ My Time, which I think was in Lissa’s half of the record collection back in the early days of our merged lives.

Well I’m guilty, honey I’m guilty, and I’ll be guilty for the rest of my life
How come I never do, what I’m s’posed to do
Nothin’ I try to do ever turns out right.

The closest I come to dancing these days is when I’m listening to music on the headphones while I crank away on a stationary bike. I’ve learned a sort of dance step to the music, altering the resistance and the cadence to match the tempo. Which is more of a challenge than it might sound.

Doubly so now that I can only pedal with one leg. Instead of the smooth shimmy, the machine makes this kind of wheezing noise as it spins on the left pedal downstroke, then coasts (clickclickclickclick) as the right pedal rolls through – “No resistance, no weight.” But I’m getting it. It’s the best I’ve got right now, so it’s what I’ll do.

Tonight, I got off the bike all by myself. Lissa was there to spot for me, but no help. Woot.