There was a girl dancing in her driveway on my way to work this morning. Backpack on the ground; jeans and sneakers, pink hooded sweatshirt and brown hair in a swinging ponytail. She didn’t care that a stranger was.driving by. As I passed, she glanced my way without missing a step. It looked like a particular dance routine, something she’d been practicing.
As she disappeared from my rear view, still dancing the length of her driveway, I flashed back to years ago when I was probably about her age. My sister and I were briefly obsessed with the Dirty Dancing and Pretty Woman soundtracks. We made up a dance routine for one of the tracks; I can’t for the life of me remember which one. It might have been just the two of us or it might have been with our two best friends. Exactly the sort of scheme the four of us would have undertaken with solemn, sleepover dedication.
I wanted to turn around and hurry back. I wanted to jump out of the car and shout, “Don’t stop being that girl!” Don’t stop being the girl who doesn’t care that a stranger sees her dancing. That girl who imagines, creates, and does what she sets her mind to do. The one who laughs at her mistakes then sets her mind on succeeding the next time around. Don’t stop being that girl who smiles like she has a sweet secret and dances like no one’s watching because she doesn’t care if anyone is watching.
“Don’t stop being that girl,” I whispered to myself and kept driving.