I can't dance.
Even alcohol doesn't improve the situation. Not false humility.
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Last Tuesday night's banquet came too quickly - I had felt unsettled in my stomach all day, that uneasy feeling that comes from raw fear.
It wasn't a fear of public speaking; I have no problem with that. Nor was it a fear of new social interaction - people generally consider me an extrovert.
It was the event, the disc jockey turning on the music and seeing couples heading giddily to the dance floor. No amount of alcohol could bring me rhythm.
The banquet could not just be a banquet; it was a banquet and dance. Immediately after hearing the second word, my anxiety began to creep up. It was a fear of exposure, the sorrow of being incompetent in this most ancient courtship ritual.
Storybooks are full of magic dance moments - looking into one another's eyes, falling in love on the dance floor, "the last waltz," "floating toward me on the ballroom floor." And none of this can be mine.
My magical moments were helping the disc jockey carry out the records or standing on the dance sidelines with the most wonderfully timed ankle sprain, but never on the floor. It is a powerful insecurity that can stand up to three double rums and go, “You aren’t winning.”
I remember being at a wedding and seeing two hopelessly drunk young Russian guys. Their dancing was random spasms of energy and movement amplified through a glorious inebriation. Bad dancing. Yet they were having the time of their lives.
I envied them.
It is hard to stand outside the dance floor the entire evening (and to plan a social life around "not dancing"). Indeed, you can leave early, which can knock off an hour. Then there is the loitering time (hoping desperately to find another non-dancer burning to get in a protracted conversation), waiting in the drink line and washroom time. But you can try as you may; you can’t waste away an entire evening hanging out by the washrooms.
So, I inevitably find myself standing outside the gyrating horde, trying to look like someone who has just left the dance floor, perhaps even tapping my foot in a carefree moment. I will, though, never cease to be amazed that many of those dancing seem to be enjoying themselves; it is such an alien pleasure to me. Indeed, it might be one area where the Taliban and I see eye to eye.
I am no music hater. The music hits my ear most pleasantly. I’m often told to turn down the music, and I spend too much time watching TikToks of greatest hits from The Voice. I appreciate the beat, melodies and harmonies.
But the beat seems incapable of descending my torso; my legs and arms are obstinate. And those rare times when I am coerced onto the floor, I move but do not dance. I shift my body weight from one foot to the other and try to make one of those edge-of-the-dance-floor moves, where you talk and do a moderate shuffle. But I am not moving to the music; I am wondering why I never left the safety of the outer fringes of the ballroom and am desperately hoping to maintain some semblance of dignity.
Regardless, every second I long for the song to end, a fire alarm, a power failure - anything to get me an escape.
This dance phobia is not rooted in any false humility. Up until Grade six, I needed help doing a jumping jack properly. My classmates would laugh, but I never saw their point; it seemed like extraneous coordination. After all, I could walk across a room, tie my shoes and do all the basic movements. And some coordination did come in sports in the teen years, though the dance-floor paralysis persisted.
If I could trace this phobia, it was in primary school. My first dance. It was the late seventies, and the lights went off at Viscount Alexander School in Winnipeg, and there I was. Move right foot right, bring left foot over to meet it, move left foot left, bring right foot over to complete it. Dancing was relatively easy. Oh, how foolish I was - thinking a passable grade of dancing was moving in a shuffle reminiscent of a metronome.
"Nice dancing," came the smirking voice.
"Nice dancing."
And then another, "Where'd you learn to dance?"
At that moment, my confidence was shattered for a lifetime; I was relieved of one childhood delusion: the one I could move on the dance floor and fit in. I never wanted to be good at it; my ambitions were modest. All I wanted was for someone to scan the dance floor and see just a mass of moving bodies, not a mass of moving bodies and one awkward person whose body language spoke so clearly of insecurity. That night, I left the dance in tears, angry at a world that would condemn me.
I was raised in a WASP-ish home, where classical music was the norm and no one ever danced, where, as far as I could tell, no one ever considered dancing.
These days, as I look on a dance floor, I often see a few other dancing mules, but they seem oblivious to their rhythmic shortcomings.
Indeed, such ignorance is bliss. Dancing is only a torment to me.
Please subscribe and get at least three pieces /essays per week with open comments. It’s $5 per month and less than $USD 4. I know everyone says hey, it’s just a cup of coffee (with me, not per day but just one per month), but if you’re like me, you go, “Hey, I only want so many cups of coffee!” I get it. I don’t subscribe to many here because I can’t afford it.
But I only ask that when you choose your coffee, please choose mine. Cheers.
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