Dance Like an Italian

I married a fair-skinned Italian. In the time it takes for me to tan, he becomes a lobster. On our honeymoon, I quickly learned that I not only needed to remind him to apply sunscreen, but I also needed to help him cover the backs of his ears and sides of his feet - 2 or 3 times a day. And though his skin screams of his partially English heritage, everything else about Blake is Italian. The man gesticulates like a child on a sugar-high when he's angry. He refuses any additives to a pasta dish that his mother wouldn't have included. He is fiercely loyal to his family and enjoys a good cannoli. But nothing, and I mean nothing, speaks of Blake's Italian heritage more than his dancing.

I can't say I wasn't warned. I've been to family gatherings on Blake's Italian side that have made dancing the main event. These people can dance with the passion that translates into almost every other aspect of their lives. Not all of them well, but those with even an ounce of Italian blood in their veins can dance like their pants are on fire. All. Night. Long.
I think it took Blake a while to come into his own as a dancer. Sometimes you have to be manipulated into multiple dancing events before you can decide that you like being in a crowd of sweaty people, singing at the top of your lungs and throwing your hands in the air like you just don't care.

Which was exactly what we did last night after getting dressed up, meeting with a group of friends for dinner and driving to the Salem Old Town Hall for some last-day-of-class festivities. We danced. We clapped. We jumped. We took our dehydrated selves on a search for water. And then we did it all over again. Because at some points in your life, surrounded by people who mean the world to you, dressed to the nines and thankful for the life you've been given, all you can do is dance.

As I watched my husband throw his fist up in the air and break out his funny little smirk, I was reminded, once again, that only the lucky girls get the Italian boys.

L-R: Rob, Blake, Brian, Heather, Me, Melissa

L-R: Ben (and his Vera Bradley pants), Angela, Rebekah, Holly, Andrew, Sergiy, and Sam

Heather, Me, Melissa

Me, Rebekah, Heather and Melissa

Heather, Melissa, Me and Rachel

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