we go together like boogedy-boogedy-boogedy-boogedy-shoop

I suspect I am not supposed to come home from my retail job tired from the dancing.

Julia obliged me by digging up the soundtrack to Grease, always a crowd pleaser, and so I got to sing along through the last hour of my shelving, bopping gently as I smiled at the customers. Just before we close we always turn the music off--it's a signal, meaning "okay, pay us and get out now." I was snapping my fingers when the sound stopped, and she called "Sorry," across the floor.
"It's all right," I assured her, "I'm feeling the funk on the inside."
"Aren't you always?" she asked me, laughing. Yep. Yep, I am. I ride the funk train through a lot of crappy moments in the employment part of my life. How do people who don't like music survive customer service? I have to get a rhythm back somehow after the little things that throw you off--rude people, insane busyness, the phone ringing off the hook, not being able to find even one of the thirty-nine copies of a book you're supposed to have--I find it easiest to borrow someone else's.

Cookie and I stickered a whole whack of bestsellers along with "My Sharona," and I raced up and down the stairs a few times with magazines, "More Than a Feeling" propelling me along. Sears' obnoxious outdoor speakers were playing "Jenny From the Block," and that got me home.

My feet are tired, but my heart feels great.