I don’t like to dance—never have, never will. I think the last time I was on a dance floor was in ’82 or ’83. I hate dancing. It doesn’t thrill me the way it does other people, and I’m sure some of you are wondering why. Well, I’ll tell you.
First of all, I sweat like a pig. We’re talking buckets here. Every time I got on the dance floor, it was open the spigots all the way. What about a slow dance, you may ask. Well, I could tolerate slow dancing. What could be better than pulling some PYT close against you and grinding around? Doing it without her saying, “Ew, you sweat like a pig! Leggo me!”
Next, there’s the issue of rhythm. The old adage “All God’s chillun gots rhythm” is blatantly false. Sweating is bad enough, but when I dance to anything with a beat faster than a whale’s heart, I jerk around like a spastic after downing an entire pot of coffee. You might as well strap electrodes to my arms and legs and give me random shocks. “Look, Stad’s doing the Funky Chicken!”
Then there’s the music. I’d much rather listen to it or even play it than dance to it. But if you take a date to a place with dancing, she’s gonna wanna dance, not sit and talk—and talking is how you get to know one another, and hopefully you’ll
score that night get to see her again. But after one dance with me, she’s ready to go home. “I’ll take a cab, thank you.”
However, I do like to watch people dance. It’s fun to grab a table next to the dance floor, sit back with a cold adult beverage, then pick out the cutest chick with the tightest dress and study her, all the while praying for a wardrobe malfunction. Think of it as anthropological research into the mating ritual of dancus babelicious.
Wife: Why are you staring at that young girl on the dance floor?
Stad: Uh … I was thinking about buying you a dress just like hers.
Wife: Yeah, right. (eyeroll)
So there you have it. No dancing for me. Not even Sandra Bullock could drag me onto the dance floor. (But if you’re reading this Sandra, feel free to try—nod nod, wink wink.)Published in