She didn't mean New Wave MTV vests fashioned from violently vulcanized inner tubes.
She meant "dancing with myself."
A few weeks back, she mailordered some new "dancing shoes,"strumming shaky signals of ones and zeroes across a sticky web.
She didn't like going to the "dancing shoe store," for she had abominable snowwoman feet.
For days, she feared the discovery of the all too pretty "dancing shoes," for they would have caused alarm and disarray in polite company. There were three "pairs," a gluttonous number, one glass, one rubber, one plastic. Still, in her head she visualized all the ways, the steps, the positions, the pirouettes.
Finally, the day arrived. Propped against the doorframe lay the box: intact.
Inside she took the things, unable to wait any longer.
Box torn asunder, ripped passionately apart, she put the "shoes" to their proper use.
It had been too long since she danced this way.
And it was good.
Wuh uh uh oh.