Put on Your Dancing Shoes

It might not be much, but the temperature has risen. We're all up, actually––all around the country, from what I'm hearing on the radio. And those increased numbers are thrilling everyone as much as a marked increase in the economy. 
Better watch out, I might actually attempt the Twerk.
Or not.
More likely than not, I would end up looking like some version of Elaine on Seinfeld, so famous in her whiplash-like attempt at dancing. Unfortunately, I've got rhythm––but my own self-counsiousness makes me lose a grip on it when I think people might be watching.
All of which means that in situations of dancing––concerts and the occasional beat-thumping atmosphere of the nightclubs I went into once or twice in my roaring twenties––you'll likely find me with my feet firmly planted on the floor in one spot, even while my head and upper body are doing a barely detectable version of a bounce. 
Or something.
All tragic attempts at dancing aside, when I'm alone in my car or at home, I seem to have a pretty good grasp on what qualifies as publicly acceptable dancing.
The perception of eyes––real or imagined––renders me danceless.
Sad, but true. 
Actually, that seems to be true about most things that make us all feel vulnerable.
If we feel like someone's watching, we become inept. We get in our own heads, and then in our own way.
Our mental feet trip themselves up, and we stumble and fall.
That's something I'd like to change about myself.
Not the literal dancing thing; but my own tendencies to glue my "feet" to the floor when I think someone might be watching, waiting to see me fail. I want to dance, but I don't make the move to move.
I need a new pair of dancing shoes.
Not just to keep in the box, shiny and new.
I need to take them out, hold them in my hands, and put them on.
As 2014 unfolds, I want to learn how to dance in public––and then wear those dancing shoes until there are holes in the soles.
Dance with me?