Hello, my name is Stefanie, and I am a dance addict.

I’m not kidding.

This has become a full-on obsession, a love affair.

Yesterday I began my morning by practicing Latin Rumba walks, in my socks and PJ’s, on my stone floor.  It was the first thing on my mind, and I had to do it. Immediately.  Like a chain smoker arriving in Tokyo whose last cigarette was in LA.

I played my Rumba song at least 100 times.

I stared at myself in my glass door, using it as a mirror, watching my shoulders to make sure they weren’t raising as I swiveled my hips.

I then proceeded to write about dancing for a few hours, then watch videos on YouTube of professionals for a few more.

I joined fan pages for the movie, “Ballroom Dancer,” and for the professional couple Joanna Leunis and Michael Malitowski.

I simply don’t know what to do with myself if I am not dancing, or writing, or working (so I can pay the bills and be dancing and writing).

I dance in my brain with any spare moment I have, and fantasize about going to competitions.

I have a sickness, and the only cure is more cowbell…I mean, dancing!

So here is my Ode To The Dancer (apologies if there is an actual proper format to an ode other than praising the subject matter – I use term ode loosely):

Dance.

Give it to me in tutus and toe shoes, high heels and bedazzled bras, unitards, Nike’s, tap shoes, and skirts.  Give it to me fast or slow, jazzy or classical, modern or old-fashioned.  Show me your inner Ginger Rogers or Bob Fosse.  Leap, spin, stretch, and fly.

Dance alone or with a partner or even in a group.

Show me pictures with your body.  Make lines that extend on through forever and into my heart.

Make me smile or weep, cheer or laugh, or inflame my passion.

Amaze me as you defy gravity and the laws of physics and contort your body beyond any limitations.  Show me your strength or your vulnerability.  Dazzle me with flexibility, speed, grace.

Share your beauty or your darkside.  I don’t care.  I just want to see you embody your spirit.  Allow it to spill out of you through your very fingers and toes.

This is my quaff of choice.  No longer beer, or champagne.  No longer juice or even water.

I thirst only for dance and through dance transcendence and contact with God, The Source, The Universe.  I want to drink deeply from this well.

Dancer.  Hallowed be thy name.  You are an expression of The Almighty.