Me on the Dance Floor

I’m not a great dancer. Some people can Belly Dance; I can BARELY dance. I can’t move my ass to Punjabi Hip Hop or jive without stamping on the feet of not just my partner but everyone else within a three-foot radius. (I call that my Deadly Dance Circle of Death.) The less said about my other fancy-schmancy dances, the better.

This fact might have troubled me since I’m normally not too pleased by things I can’t do well. But my only cause for consolation is that I’ve noticed MOST people aren’t great dancers. About 5% of the crowd on the dance floor at any party or disco will be good dancers. Another 10% will be so terrible, that they’ll look like they’re trying to swat a pesky mosquito sitting on their back while rotating an imaginary hula hoop around their waists. The remaining 85% are just about average, run-of-the-mill, you-wouldn’t-notice-them-unless-you-looked-twice types. And I’m one of them.

When I’m dancing I like to follow an algorithm of sorts. Move B comes after Move A, and is then followed by Move C. Something like that. Improvising is dangerous, for the simple reason that I’m bad at it! When I try to get too creative on the dance floor I’m likely to spill someone’s drink or gouge someone’s eye out. After you do that a few times, people kind of stop letting you into parties anymore.

In the beginning of the party, I like to sit near one corner of the dance floor and observe for a while. I then pick someone who’s pulling what looks -- to my amateur eyes, at least -- like a few “groovy moves” and mentally rehearse them until I feel I’m confident. (I normally select the guy getting the most attention from the prettiest ladies.) Sometimes I’ll also lock myself in the washroom for a while so I can practice them for real. I then saunter over to the other end of the dance floor, where I “introduce” my “new” cool moves. Pretty soon everyone around me is copying them and I’m the hero.

That’s when I grab myself a drink and go console the person who’s nursing that eye I poked.