It had to come to a title like this, funk being what it is.
So the story continued, even though the writing did not. Contrary to the rumors, the funk did not kill me. By my third class, I was hooked and loving the simple fun of movement and music. I forgot about arm waggles and the finer points of the samba.
People kept passing by the large glass windows of the defunct business that continues to house our scrubby dance class. They smiled and looked entertained, families with young children and couples on dates.
Life being what it is, I was interrupted by a visit to our college-graduating son, a funeral for a friend, pipes that broke under our concrete foundation, and the impending threat of my book being published. Being retired has been a tangle of things unpredicted, but I have figured out one thing.
The most important muscles to exercise are the ones that help you laugh. And for that, the laughter, things that waggle are some of the best motivators. Laugh, because you will not die of this disease. I am fond of my arm flaps. They remind me I am here, grateful, and continuing to figure out what comes next.
And the funk? I think I’ve pretty much always been funky enough.