Unfortunately for everyone who lives in my house, whenever a song is stuck in my head, I can’t stop singing it. The difference today was that someone was paying attention.
“Mama, how does a Jagger move?” Tyler asked.
“That’s Mick Jagger,” I corrected. “He’s a singer, and he has a special way of dancing. Don’t ask me to demonstrate, cause Mama doesn’t move that way.”
“Show me,” he persisted.
“No.”
“But I want to see!”
“Tyler,” I sighed, “If I show you, will you stop asking me?”
He nodded and eagerly waited. I strutted, chest out, like a peacock in full plumage. I put on my poutiest lips, swiveled my hips and thrust my neck side to side like a chicken in heat. In my own mind, His Majesty of the British Invasion would’ve been proud.
Tyler watched without any expression, then paused for a moment before delivering his verdict. “I don’t like the way Jaggers move,” he said decidedly.
Figuratively speaking, Chaz Bono isn’t the only one who was sent home packing.