I would rather use crutches for a week, drink a sizeable cup of past-due milk, or do a polar bear plunge buck naked than spend an evening dancing.
I can’t even line dance, guys, and I grew up in a semi-rural town 15 minutes from a city that is colloquially known as CowTown.
I have been taught dances by many lovely people and I have even had the courage on a few occasions to attend dance lessons, however, the fact remains that few things in my life have ever had the same enduring power to shut down my self-esteem in an instant and induce fight-or-flight panics as dancing can and does.
During my late teens and the first few years of my 20s, it was impossible to maintain a place in my social network of lady friends without going to a club at least a few times a year. Now, it’s impossible to avoid a wedding dance floor with about the same frequency. Dance is clearly not going away and it is an aggressive past time. I feel like there must be some unspoken truth that every time an “invitation” to dance is rejected a litter of puppies is My Dog Skip’d in a graveyard. I dance for the puppies.
I cannot dance and I know very acutely that I cannot dance. I occupy the uncomfortable space somewhere between Lorde at the 2017 VMAs and Taylor Swift at the 2014 Grammys. The cherry on top is the fact that I have approximately the same level of grace and poise on a dance floor as an elephant seal.
When I am “invited” to dance and pressured to accept, I feel like I have a choice between appearing to be a wet blanket and being left out of an important social activity or subjecting myself to an intensive test on appearing normal that I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I fail.
For a while, I got up the courage to try out the old chestnut “dance like no one is watching” and it actually worked. I required a drink or four beforehand to hit the dance floor but I did dance and I even enjoyed it more often than not. That is, until I was watched, recorded, and pointed and laughed at on two separate occasions by women that I thought were my friends; one of them a “best friend” and the other my potential future sister-in-law. The latter was my senior by over five years. I cannot remember a single instance of having felt more ashamed and humiliated than I did because of the actions of those two women.
I’m never gunna dance again because of Erin and Nicole, not because my guilty feet ain’t got no rhythm.
Erin and Nicole were (are?) twats. Don’t be like Erin and Nicole.