It is becoming fairly well known that I have a tendency to dance in my car. It may just be that my car is easily identifiable, but multiple people have informed me of the strange things they caught me doing in my car. Apparently, solo dance parties in the car are a thing of the past. I can't understand why. I absolutely adore blasting my music, rolling down the windows, and safely driving home while simultaneously partying like it's 2012. But, recognizing that this activity is far beyond the social norm, I have modified my actions in one way: I do not look at the cars next to me at a stoplight. Ever. Too many times, I have made the mistake of glancing over, only to meet the confused stare of Handlebar Mustache Man or, even worse, the old lady shocked at my reckless behavior. Never having been particularly fond of these uncomfortable situations, I decided that looking straight ahead was the best approach. And I was right.
The only problem with this decision is that I have an unnaturally strong curiosity. While I prefer to remain oblivious to the judgement being passed on my dancing abilities, there are times that I cannot control the urge to sneak a little looksie. One such time happened a few days ago. I was thoroughly enjoying myself dancing to whatever was on the radio at the time, when I felt it. That burning. It was coming from the left side and the longer I resisted, the more I needed to know who the eyes belonged to. After much debating with myself, I slowly looked over. My eyes met a pair of brown eyes across the way that belonged to neither Handlebar Mustache Man nor the shocked old lady. Rather, they belonged to a small fluffy dog in the passenger seat.
Needless to say, I resumed my rock-out sesh.
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