On Wednesday I show up at the Dour Festival at the south end of Belgium.  It’s techno, hip hop, rock … and God knows what else.  And I will dance for five days.

To be clear, I expect a rhythm: dance, talk, lie down, dance …  perhaps a whole bunch of rest with flailing arms and legs between.  My fellow festival goers, thousands of them, will be far younger than me, and able to shake their booties far longer at a stretch.  And so what?

A boogieing 76-year-old will no doubt be an unusual sight.  But then again maybe not.  I might find a group of senior rockers.

No matter the age, I’ll be surrounded by folks happy in their drugs.  Good for them.  Not for me.

I wonder about the heat and humidity, about whether I’ll be able to sleep if the music goes on till 3:00 am, about what my muscles and lungs will have to say after hours of dancing.  “Well, wonder away, Bruce.  You’ll deal with whatever comes your way … and you’ll express.”

Many moons ago, my wife Jody and I went to my staff Christmas party.  Music started.  We got up to dance.  I threw myself around in gay abandon.  And I remember Jody saying …

What is that?

She was referring to my dancing.

I wonder if I’ll get the same response on Wednesday.  Or will I just blend in? 

(Not likely)