Life can be tense from time to time. It can be a downright kick in the pants. When a case of the Mondays descends, or tempers run high, I think you just gotta dance it out. A good old fashioned dance party is the antidote for what ails and annoys. Bring the funk to ban it.
If your motions are a merger of your mama’s sweet moves and dad’s stiff hips, it might look like this:
It’s cool. Own it.
But there is one caution I feel compelled to share with those considering an all-family dance party – something that must be anticipated and addressed as a household before a situation arises and you find yourself ill prepared. I’m talking about Taylor Swift. Now, I am not anti-Swift, as a general rule. I am also far from a Swiftie. But sure as a death in a Disney movie, your kids are going to flipping love her. Be ready.
I feel that my organic reaction has been genetically transferred to Sloppy Joan. Watch as, at just 10 months old, she has the I-can’t-freaking-believe-I’m-actually-dancing-to-this-shit-and-I-love-it response to America’s revered pop anthem:
The amazing thing is, this was the first time Sloppy Joan clapped. This night, dancing. Taylor Swift is so good, her sick beats elicit human reactions beyond existing motor skills. I can think what I want about her gaping, girl power expressions, but the B is good. Damn good.