So You Know You Can't Dance

I have never had rhythm. Not once. Well maybe one time. But I was drunk – too drunk. And in a couple’s dance contest at a Fraternity sponsored dance my Freshman year of college. Hence the getting drunk. You’re gonna put me in a dress, set me up with a guy I don’t know and then make me dance in front of everyone? Thank goodness we were last because I parked my taffeta’d ass right there next to the keg until it was our turn. I don’t know what happened to me, but damn I was on fire. Something got a hold of me and I went all Jennifer Beals on the place. (Can you say alcohol?) And my date and I won the competition. Then I passed out and don’t even remember his name. Awww. What a lovely little story. The moral of which is: If you can’t dance but you are being pressured to in front of a large group of people, drink fast!

I can’t really give the alcohol all the credit for my badass moves. It just gets the credit for unleashing the dance demon inside of me. (Well that one night anyway.) I know you’ve all seen the drunkies out on the dance floor thinking they’ve got it goin on when they actually look as though they’ve just walked through a spider web and are furiously trying to remove the sticky off of them while swatting about to make sure there is no spider in their hair. I’m quite sure I’ve been the spider swatting dancer a time or two. So I mostly belly up to the bar and watch everyone else dance. Believe me, it’s for the best. I know, I know, there is that popular saying that has been attributed to many an author, “You gotta dance like there’s nobody watching, love like you’ll never be hurt, sing like there’s nobody listening and live like it’s heaven on earth.” Okay, that’s a lovely little quote, but I’ve seen Seinfeld. Somebody is always watching and next thing you know, you’re a Christmas Party legend. (And not in a good way.)

Oh I can silly dance at home. I love to be the fool to make my kids laugh. That’s what I just did last night. They wanted to have a dance contest, so I showed them how to do the worm. I used to be a worm master. It’s not really a dance move, but I told myself it was since I was supreme awesomeness at it. But I hurt myself. And I knew going in that I’d be sore today. I was right. All because I got on my belly, rocked back and forth and slithered my body up and down and forward. I probably moved a total of 3 inches. My feet got rug burned too. Ouch. I’m such a baby. (Note to self, get off your ass and Zumba or do pilates or yoga or park in a far away parking spot or bend over and pick up the dropped remote control instead of curling your toes around it to bring it to you so that you can use the least amount of body work.)

Speaking of dancing, Saturday night I went out with some friends and family, and we ended up at a bar with a band and lots of dancing. Except I didn’t dance once. I was actually too busy dodging a large mouthed bass named, oh let’s just call him Patron Jones. He probably answers to Fish Lips too. So Patron Jones wanted to dance badly. He finally talked my best friend into getting out on the dance floor with him. My BFF can really shake her groove thing, and she doesn’t need alcohol to do it. She was born with rhythm and Patron Jones could hardly contain himself watching her move. He had his paws (I mean fins) all over her. BFF did not like that one bit. So she stopped dancing. The one person in the entire joint who actually could dance, had to stop because a horny nuisance nicknamed Fish Lips thought all that hip shaking was an invitation for him to touch her hips. Tsk tsk Mr. Jones/Lips. Keep your filthy paws off my BFF’s silky drawers. Would you pull that crap with Annette? (Sorry, the song Sandra Dee from Grease popped into my head for some reason.) So BFF came back to the table where most everyone else was dancing to the music. (Not me.) They didn’t need no stinkin dance floor. Of course the men in our party were doing more of the Grateful Dead/Phish kind of dancing. And you really don’t need a dance floor for that.

Okay – so I got sidetracked with a little story about Saturday night. Back to my kids. I love how much they enjoy dancing. We watched Billy Elliot the other night and they were enthralled. They actually look like they could have some real natural moves. They must get it from their more distant relatives because dad is a stocky rugby player whose body just does not get very bendy, and mom is a slouchy, artless, two left footer who does a much better Elaine Benes than Janet Jackson. Oh well. I’ll always have the worm.