On the way home from work the other day, between Alma 31 and 32, my fingers accidentally brushed against the FM radio button and the pulsating disco beats of apparently one of modern music's greatest hits, “Dance Like its the Last Night of Your Life” invaded the cabin of my tiny Hyundai Accent. According to what I could piece together based on the few words that must have unintentionally slipped through the mass of random sounds thrown together and called music, this classic empty song inspires listeners to wildly shake their booties rapidly back and forth suggestively in synch with “the vulgar beats of Satan” in commemoration of a very important day, the last night of their lives.
It inspired me, however, to think about how I really would be dancing if it was truly the last night of my life. I'm certain that on that night, I would be dancing slowly, agonizingly slow, hoping that by some miracle of physics, the slower I moved, the longer the night would last. Listening to a hopelessly romantic Frank Sinatra or Michael Buble tune, I would be desperately embracing the wife of my eternities and filling her ears with endless expressions of true love, the type of love that bridges the gulf of death. My mind would be instantly reviewing our past, present, and future together for evidence that we had done all we could do build unbreakable bonds of matrimony. Minor memories of romantic grocery store dates and walks around the block would be magnified into lasting moments. Fear of the unknown would be tempered by faith in the future.
Save the last dance for me.