“How about we dance?” Eva said.

“What, like you and me?”


“Isn’t that, like, a little silly?” I said.


“I’m too old to dance,” I announced. We were having a weekend sleepover, so some silliness was to be expected. But dancing? Nah.

“Oh,” said Eva sadly.

“Who’s too old to dance?” my mom asked, walking into the room.

“I am,” I said.

“Why? I’m forty, and I like to dance. Does that mean I’m too old, too?”

“Um…” I stalled. “Well, I guess not. If you’re not too old then I’m definitely not either. But if you were, then maybe I would be, too, but not necessarily, because it could be that you are but I’m not or that you aren’t and I am, so it could go either way.”

“What?” Eva and Mom said together.

“So you wanna dance?” asked Eva.


Eva pressed play, the room filled with the irresistible sound of the nasal wailing of a teeny-bopper and the beat that makes you want to throw your hands up and around.

And we danced, we cavorted, we jumped and giggled and wiggled and slid and dived. Then mom joined in and we sashayed, hopped, skipped, and boogied our hearts out. I didn’t know it was ok to dance like that when you’re a grown-up. But, god, it feels good. Do non-dancing grown-ups get that?