I like to think I can dance like all white girls think they can dance.
I’ll have a few drinks, hear “my song”, & decide to hit the dance floor. I think that the way I am moving & shaking is an accurate re-creation of Shakira’s moves from that terrible yogurt commercial, but in real life it probably looks like all my body parts are moving independently of one another… Rhythm ain’t my thing, okay?
Now dancing doesn’t make or break relationships. Most dudes aren’t great dancers themselves. I once knew a guy who thought the wax on, wax off movement circa The Karate Kid in time to the music (kind of) worked as a dance move (it doesn’t). But we all know that those girls who hit the dance floor, & who hit it well, are the ones beating off eligible (& not so eligible) bachelors with sticks. Or stilettos, depending on the situation & their outfit choice.
I love to dance. It’s the sole reason a senior citizen like myself actually still visits the clubs, & although I am not the best dancer, what I lack in skill I make up for in enthusiasm.
I was out dancing over the weekend with some of my girls, & we were catching our breath, when a couple of dudes approached us. They were obviously drunk, & obviously at a bachelor party, & one of them was obviously getting married, but they were deadset on dancing with one, or all, of us.
We politely declined. However, the groom-to-be & his wing/best man wouldn’t take no for an answer & before I knew it an average-looking drunk guy was swinging me around the dance floor.
It was going okay. We were both trying to lead which wasn’t really working, I had a wave of nostalgia that made me tear up (I don’t think he noticed), & at one point I accidentally sacked him with my handbag, but all in all it seemed successful.
The song ended, & I managed to free myself from his drunken, sweaty palms, & move on with my life. The music kept playing, the drinks kept pouring, & I kept dancing. I was probably dancing poorly, & I was definitely freaking a lot of people out with my spastic moves, but I didn’t care. My friend put it to me this way, when I commented to her how absolutely free I felt with my arms flailing & my feet tapping & my bangs sticking to my sweaty forehead: everything is more fun when you don’t give a shit what other people think.
So, am I alone because I lack rhythm… & have sadly dishonest hips?
Who cares. I don’t. I want to be with a dude who loves all of me: both my left feet included.