Dance like no one is watching

This past weekend I joined my mother and father on an adventure. We headed to the Pearl District, the new “it” area in Portland. What was once the site of Portland’s low-income housing district has now become a flashy display of glamour and wealth. I would be lying, however, if I said I didn’t wish I owned one of the chic lofts that look down on Jamison Park. It was this park that hosted Bastille Day. The people I met completely eradicated the notion that the French are snooty. Perhaps it is the language that makes people (the average simple minded American) to assume the French are an uppity group. Even the two vendors behind the crepe stand sounded as if they were wooing one another even though (according to Mother) they were simply tallying up the total of our order aloud. After browsing the shops and devouring delicious pastries we stopped upon the edge of the fountain’s waters border. Dancing to the French band, completely unaware of the lyrics that spoke of the many strange people the lead singer met while playing in a pub in Paris, hundreds of children grooved beneath the nearly oppressive sun. Bastille Day fell on a balmy 95 degree afternoon. I took off my sandals and waded into the water. Although it may have been frowned upon, I wished that I had my suit on. But mostly I wished that I could be a little kid again. As I watched two little girls in particular, just off to the right of the stage, I envied their freedom of expression. Even as a self-proclaimed free spirit, I find myself criticizing others who are a bit “different”. “Dance like no one is watching”. I think I saw that on some plaque in a friend’s apartment. We always dance like people are watching, unless of course no one is really watching (for example, in the solitude of one’s bedroom, the blinds drawn, the door locked). I’m tired of the critical eye the plagues everyone. I’m tried of my critical eye.