As many of you may realize, I like music. A lot. We're talking Himalayan levels of like here.
And what's more, I like to sing and dance ... often at the same time.*
On occasion, though, my love of music and dance has ousted me to the rest of the world as a true blue, dyed in the wool crazy person.
Yesterday was one of those times.
See, at the end of a long, mentally-exhausting day interpreting the law and fashioning equitable remedies in the
Court of Chancery, I grab my suit jacket, say goodbye to those poor souls still slinking about the office, turn on my iPod, and head to one of the most solitary and sacred of urban high-rise locales: the Elevator.**
There's something absolutely invigorating about stepping into an unoccupied elevator at the end of the day knowing that, for the next eleven floors, ain't nothing nor nobody gonna intrude upon your metal-sided sanctuary. And it's that same something that gets my toes a tappin'.
After all, when you get songs like
"You Make My Dreams" by
Hall & Oates pumping through those little white earbuds, you can't help but want to bust a groove. (Of course, by "you" I mean "I"). And so I do. Frequently.
Like this guy.
Now, most days no one is the wiser. After the doors close I begin an epic Astairean tribute that continues through each successive floor until, sadly, those doors open again on level 1.*** Most days, I then step out, mind a'jive with musical mojo but body back to being all business (part of that whole "responsible lawyer" image I've been cultivating).
Sometimes, though, the song is too good ... or the ride is too short ... or the Courthouse seems too empty ... and my toes twinkle a bit longer as I glide across the well-tred linoleum and into the
always unoccupied bathroom.
I emphasize the word
always. After 5:30 p.m., I have NEVER seen another soul in that bathroom. EVER. That is why, if the groove is really too good to give up, I will sometimes just keep on keepin' on (After all, it's actually kind of fun to watch yourself dance in the mirror).
But yesterday ... well, yesterday, the unthinkable happened. In the midst of one of my particularly flamboyant "Twist and Shout" moves, in walked an after-hours janitor. Caught off guard almost as much as I was, he looked somewhat flustered - sort of the look you would expect from someone who had never seen someone dancing by themselves to (apparently) non-existent music in an otherwise unoccupied bathroom.
There I was: The crazy guy in a suit. But you know what? Despite my mid-routine halt ... despite the keen sense of embarrassment ... I just had to laugh. In fact, I grinned and chuckled the full half-mile back to my car.
After all, sometimes the absurdity of the moment is just too great not to.
* NOTE 1: I, of course, do not claim to be good (or even decent) at either.
** NOTE 2: As a would-be lawyer, I long ago embraced the serial comma (or
Oxford Comma as it is sometimes known). I try to do this unpretentiously. In fact, even when using it, I tend to think to myself some lyrics from "Oxford Comma" by
Vampire Weekend - namely, "[w]ho gives a $^@#&@ about an Oxford Comma?"
*** NOTE 3: I recognize that many elevators - including mine - have cameras and that there is the distinct possiblity that someone, somewhere could be watching these Gene Kelly-esque shenanigans ... but I figure that if your job is to sit around monitoring the elevators for signs of danger or terrorism, you'd probably appreciate a large, goofy-looking white man dancing alone to some (apparently) non-existent music from time to time. I know I would.
