Someone needs to show me how to dance.
That’s
a tall order for several reasons, not the least of which is my complete
lack of coordination. Somewhere, on a spacecraft near the fringes of
the Andromeda galaxy, is a human guinea pig emerging from some alien’s
bizarre electroshock experiment, and they’re moving with more grace than
I am. Boxers fresh off a 12-round pummeling could dance a waltz with
more wherewithal and skill.
Not
that this is a huge problem,
mind you. It’s not like I’m trying to make a living as a hip-swinging
disco geek. I don’t think that job actually exists, and even if it did,
I’ve got an abnormally low tolerance for sequin pants. That tolerance is
zero.
Being
a bad dancer, though, is one of those shortcomings that sneaks up on
you at odd moments. The oddest so far: A few weeks ago, my friend
“Lucretia” invited me to her home to scope out the new Iron Maiden
album. This “listening party,” as she called it, was a two-person affair
involving many cans of skunky beer and a CD crammed to the gills with
ear-splitting metal riffs. Heavy metal isn’t typically the kind of music
you dance to; instead, the genre inspires movement more akin to the
herky-jerky gyrations of a hyperactive mental patient, all flailing
limbs and banging heads. But we found a way. After tearing your way
through a six-pack of specialty suds, you can dance to pretty much
anything, whether it be metal, polka or the sound of dogs licking
Tabasco sauce off their teats.
The
dancing started in earnest. Lucretia found a beat she could swing to
amidst the pounding drums and bass, and launched into an epileptic
shuffle that sort of worked, despite her looking like a coke-crazed
fitness guru. It was a ludicrous enough display as it was, but would
have been doubly embarrassing had I not joined in. Silliness loves
company.
Tentatively,
I started waggling my hips. About four seconds in, I silently thanked
the gods of jackassery that no one was recording me with a cell phone
camera. If anyone had filmed my pathetic performance, they would have
captured, for posterity, the arrhythmic cluelessness of a deeply
disturbed individual. Since everything ends up on YouTube these days,
the Internet would have wondered whether I was bebopping to Maiden or
trying to conjure rain during a drought. The hazing would have been
merciless. Shamed, I’d have no choice but to gather my belongings and
move to a corner of planet that has yet to gain Internet access.
Basically I’d be living with the chimps in the Congo.
It’s
a stereotype that white men can’t dance. Throughout my life, I’ve
apparently done my level best to uphold that stereotype. Though I
couldn’t actually see myself, I had a clear enough mental picture of
what was happening – the stilted movements, the flat feet, the ape-ish
arms awkwardly dangling like frozen beef cuts in a meat locker.
Horrendous. An affront to decency.
I need help.
Because
it isn’t going to end there. Someday, somewhere, in some situation,
I’ll once more be called upon to dust off the ol’ dancin’ sneaks and
boogie-oogie-oogie. The chances are pretty high that I’ll attend at
least one more wedding in my lifetime – you can’t escape it, really –
and you’re almost required to
dance at a wedding. The non-dancers at these things are pariahs,
relegated to darkened tables at the fringes of the reception hall, ties
and dress straps becoming more and more disheveled with each whiskey
sour. It’s only a matter of time before the DJ throws on “Don’t Stop
Believin’,” and I don’t know about you, but I’d feel like a schmuck if I
didn’t at least shuffle my feet to that one. This is where the vibe and
atmosphere of a reception work in my favor; between the strobe lights
and the intoxicated brains of most of the guests, few people will
remember that my “moves” consist of staring at my toes and shrugging. If
I’m feeling particularly whimsical, I might point an index finger at
the ceiling, at which point someone I know will laugh at me, and I’ll
start pointing a whole other finger entirely.
Luckily
for me, dancing opportunities aren’t as common as they once were. There
was a time, in my mid-20s, when every friend’s birthday was an excuse
to find an establishment with thumping beats rattling the walls and
shake our groove thangs, however groovy those thangs may have been.
There were at least four occasions in the course of any given year
during which I’d steel myself with a gooey blender concoction and leap
into the fray, jiggling my buns in a way that suggested deep
gastrointestinal distress. As my peers and I have gotten older, dancing
gave way to low-key reminiscences in comparatively sedate settings;
never did I think I’d embrace old-farthood more lovingly. In this new
stage of life, I’m spared the humiliation of having to move with any
degree of competence. Acquaintances are likewise spared a blush-worthy
spectacle. Now when I trip over my shoelaces it doesn’t interfere with
some gauche two-step in halfhearted time to a Beyoncé ditty.
Not
to sound a pessimistic note, but I’m beyond all help. The kind of work
it would take to smooth out my rough edges would entail way too much
time and expense – I’m talking about a month off work, a team of
specialists living in my home, and a shock collar with enough voltage to
re-heat a slice of day-old pizza. It isn’t worth it. Besides, if I’m
dancing, that means I’m having an abnormal amount of fun, with an
uncharacteristic lack of self-consciousness, and don’t really care how
stupid I look, at least in the moment. What’s important for me to keep
in mind are three rules of thumb: Don’t fall and injure myself, don’t
injure anyone else, and make sure nobody’s filming.
The third may be the most important. YouTube’s overcrowded with dorks like me to begin with.
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