Back then, I danced. I mean I really danced.

During my 20s and 30s, I’d hear a song that would make me spring to my feet. Channeling the beat of the music through gyrating torso and limbs, I swung my hair in loop-de-loops just for laughs. Rivulets of sweat trickled down my back, and when my evening was done, I slept like a rock.

I danced often. At cousins’ weddings. On Friday nights with friends who came over for dinner and didn’t end up leaving until 1 a.m. At bars or nightclubs when I was still young enough to patronize them without looking pathetic.

Now, decades later, dancing just isn’t the same.

When I get the opportunity to dance, which isn’t often, for the most part, I sit and watch. But every once in a while, like an old dog who’s feeling frisky, I give it a go. A really good 80s song fools me into believing I’ve still got it, so I shuffle to the dance floor doing a sort of pre-dance—biting my bottom lip with one fist pumping in the air—that signals everyone else to pay attention.

Once positioned, I begin, but soon realize my body doesn’t dance spontaneously like it used to. I’m stiff, uncoordinated. I must deliberately recall the moves that used to come so freely, as I awkwardly re-create The Roger Rabbit, The Van Halen Jump and The Hair Swing from faded memory. Eventually, thirst and a twinge of humiliation prompt me to slink back to my seat.

Later, in the wee hours, I bolt awake when my calf seizes up with cramps. And in the morning, I discover I have a kink in my neck and won’t be able to turn my head to the left for three more days.

Back then, when my husband Francis and I were in our 20s and 30s, we were still discovering ourselves and setting standards for our life together.

We’d ponder, “Perhaps we’re the kind of people who brew craft beers in our garage, using interesting ingredients like apricots and toasted malts? Maybe we surf, play tambourine in a coworker’s band, bake gourmet biscotti, ride Harleys or run marathons?”

When we planned our home life together, we thought we’d insist on stainless steel appliances and quartz countertops. We believed we’d use the china from our wedding registry every Thanksgiving. We were certain that romance will not be diminished when we had kids.

Naively, we believed our babies would be born without pain medications. They’d eat organic, homemade baby foods, and when old enough, they’d strictly adhere to a system of marble jar behavior rewards as set forth in the June issue of Parenting magazine. As teens, our children would never defy our authority, because we’d raise them in an environment of mutual respect.

Yeah, right.

Now, in our 50s, our days of self-discovery are behind us. Somewhere along the way, life simply happened. We were too busy working, paying taxes, raising kids and keeping our marriage intact to bother with all those standards we’d made and forgot to abide by.

We simply became a family, naturally.

Our house has mismatched furniture and tumbleweeds of dog hair. I drive used cars and take fiber supplements. Francis is bald and falls asleep in his recliner. I haven’t seen our wedding china since we boxed it for storage before an overseas move 15 years ago. The money we dreamed we might spend on exotic travel and trendy décor ended up being used on braces for our three kids, mortgages, fan belts, plumbers’ bills and college tuition. Our idea of a great Friday night is fire-pitting with the neighbors and still being in bed by 11.

Life didn’t follow the principled, high-minded blueprint we planned way back then, but believe it or not, we’ve had more fun than we ever imagined.

After more than 2 1/2 decades of marriage, parenting and military life, I may not dance all that much anymore. But I’ve gained the wisdom to know that, to me, it’s the love of family, the companionship of friends, the honor of military service and the richness of experience that make a life worth living.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com