I don’t know what my groove is, but if I ever find it I’ll beat it within an inch of its life. You know it’s bound to be hanging out with my missing sense of humor on some seedy street corner, acting all cool, talkin’ smack about me to anyone who’ll listen.
“Oh that Beauty, man,” I imagine my groove saying with sly winking eyes, “she done lost it a long time ago. That’s one chick in serious need of adventure. I just couldn’t take one more minute of her dullness. She’s about as exciting as Trump’s comb over, know what I mean?” I imagine my sense of humor snickering, adding her two cents, never thinking that just maybe if she hadn’t gone AWOL I wouldn’t be so dull in the first place.
Yep, I definitely need to get my groove back. Something’s a tad bit amiss when the highlight of my day is my granddaughter finally moving her bowels, or stumbling upon an episode of Matlock I haven’t seen before. Fresh sheets on my bed shouldn’t move me to tears. Lining up dishes in the dishwasher so that they are all facing the same way, with no wasted space, shouldn’t be substituted for adventure and fun.
I used to have a groove—I grew up in the sixties, for crying out loud! I not only had a groove, I was groovy. I wore my middle parted hair long, with a strand of love beads around my neck, accompanied by a peace sign. Roman sandals on my feet, bell-bottomed jeans, patchouli oil following me around like a musty cloud. Shoot, who cared about clean sheets back then?
I know I’m not the only one who’s lost her groove. Think about it, all the groove-less people you see in the course of a week. They’re everywhere: at the grocery store, post office, or they might even live on your block. You can spot them by the slump of their shoulders, their frumpy, over-dyed hair, and the listless look on their grim features. They purse their lips in disapproval whenever someone with a groove struts by, reeking of self-confidence. They mutter in line at the grocery store, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, emitting an impatient sigh every 10 seconds, though you know they have nothing of any importance awaiting them at home. They’re the first to complain in line at the post office, striking up dark stabbing conversations with total strangers. Anger is the only vibe they give off these days, anger sometimes mingled with an air of hopelessness. They thought they would be one of the lucky ones, keeping their grooves well into middle age, never guessing it would come to this. Never knowing that one must be groove worthy, something which is bestowed like a blessing during nonchalant youth. Never guessing that a groove can be lost by sheer boredom or the giving up of youthful dreams.
And so. I humble myself, knowing my groove will never return without a certain degree of humility on my part. Begging helps. A groove is a prideful thing and so, if I ever find mine I will not be above imploring its swift return with heartfelt expressions of devotion. I started out saying I would beat it to within an inch of its life, but the truth is if I ever find my groove again I will embrace it with exuberant relief. Oh, a groove is a terrible thing to lose!
(A Groove is a lot like Animal Magnetism!)