I don’t get the appeal of dancing.
Never in my life have I been so moved by a song or swept up in a moment that my body was overcome with the urge to shift and shake to the beat and/or rhythm by myself or with another person.
Maybe this is because I just am not good at dancing. Maybe it’s because I am secretly self-conscious and I don’t want others to bear witness to the random ways in which my limbs and torso work against each other in efforts to establish their own unique moves.
Or, and I am starting to believe more and more in this theory, maybe I am a hero who has successfully restrained my inner dancer in the interest of public safety.
Because I know how unfair it is to my wife (who really enjoys dancing), I still risk it all at the occasional wedding, but tend to keep the moves to simple feet shuffling and a partner spin every so often.
For the rest of society, let me explain how I am saving your lives every time I neglect to let loose.
Even though I have never really been overwhelmed to the point of breaking out in dance, I still have felt the tug to give it a try and see what kind of moves reside in this elongated torso of destruction.
What I have found is a rhythmless monster with a penchant for lip biting, fake lasso roping and Michael Jackson kicks. (Yeah, let that image sink in for a minute and feel free to finish reading when you stop laughing…or crying…or crying from laughter.)
Wondering where the safety aspect comes into play here? Imagine getting down on the dance floor within a ten-foot radius of me when I let one of those King of Pop kicks fly. I would easily take out you and, at least, eight of your closest friends or dance partners. Not even Chuck Norris could do that level of damage with a single kick.
I truly wish I could help it, but it’s like my soul has been imprinted with Billy Jean and I am unable to shake free.
And practice doesn’t help either. I once learned how to do some country dance moves with Becky, but the lip biting was too distracting for her and my leg kept spontaneously kicking up after each time I spun her away from me. I think it might be possessed.
The other problem is there are no safe places for me to practice either. Even if I tried to do so by myself, in my own house, I would still leave levels of destruction resembling a small tornado hitting just the inside of our home. I mean, maybe I could try to rent out an empty airplane hanger for a little more space. Neither option is really affordable though.
So, I am left with keeping my inner “dancer” (using this term loosely, of course) caged deep within and protecting the world from unparalleled destruction.
Does that make me a hero?
I don’t know if I can really answer that question, but…
Yes, it does.