Rockin'

I am in the midst of one of the busiest weeks of my summer. Even So You Think You Can Dance is cast into time's shadows. Julie occupies the blue room, my grandmother and her sister returned to Seattle this afternoon, and George and Betsy Montague remain visitors until Saturday. The introduction of fresh, eager feet from the lower 48 increased the demand of the two cars until my size 7 feet were left to find their own way to work. Too tired to bike or bus to work, Katherine and I implored coworker Weston for seats in his car.
Every night I ask Weston for a ride, I am assured of two things the next morning: 1) I will arrive between 5-11 minutes late to work. 2) when I arrive, my hair will hold frizz and my ears unable to comprehend anything less than shouting.
7:46 AM, Weston
"here"
7:46.5 AM, Emily
"there"
A minute behind Katherine, I balanced Wuthering Hights, an apple, and my coffee mug to Weston's late Honda Civic. I felt the throbbing car before I saw it. Instead of reaching the office with a scowl, I always step out of his subwoofing car giggling. My back vibrates at various intensities throughout the ride as I, and the cars  around us, listen to one of the following songs (along with half a dozen synonymous beats and uplifting phraseology)
"Little Bad Girl"
"Party Rock Anthem"

"Party Rock" is also the official National Dance Day song. Although currently unpracticed, Katherine and I ventured one workout/practice session attempting to learn the dance. 

  Try it.