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Don’t Ask Me to Dance
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 Humor
What instrument do you play?
Organ (piano) and guitar. Well, I used to. Mild carpal tunnel has driven me toward the bass:
Halloween costume?
As I tell SWMBO (to excuse my own terpsichorean failings), one can’t play an instrument reasonably well without a sense of rhythm and beat. It’s translating that sense into the physical movements known as “dance” where some of us fail.
Boy, have I got the girl for you Stad!
That’s the thing. Musical instruments and sports? I have rhythm. Dancing? No way Jose.
Next up on Dancing with the Lards…
Don’t lie, Stad. There’s footage of You tripping the lights fantastic:
Nope, I have dined with Stad & his Misses, I’m not seeing any difference……🙄
That’s scary.
LOL! This is what I wear on cruises when it’s reggae night . . .
The only reason to dance is when you are hunting womyn. A dance floor is sort of like a watering hole for those critters.
I read the headline of your post, and thought, “Well dang – there go my weekend plans…”
I do like kittens and long walks on the beach . . .
He did say he hasn’t danced since 82 or 83. I believe the last dance was also caught on film. – Dang – the gif ain’t working.
Yeah, SWMBO doesn’t get it either. But it works the other way: she can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but is outstanding on the dance floor.
There we go!
TMI.
And TMPR. (Too many photographic reproductions.)
Not only can I not dance, I can’t clap in sync with music, especially if I am simultaneously singing.
My husband feels similarly.
Alas … we often find ourselves in situations where dancing is appropriate … nay … demanded. Kitchens, garages, weddings …
35 years ago my mother dressed him down at a wedding (after she’d had a couple of sherries) for him not dancing with me. 10 years later we were at the funnest wedding ever (at a horse ranch – and there were horses on the dance floor!) and I sat at a table with my best friend saying old lady things like “isn’t the bride lovely”. I do believe there were a few words shared on the ride home.
I did have a thought that he’d taken my words a little too much to heart when he was dancing with a gay friend at a local watering hole a few months ago.
We were “hop around” dancers for 35 years. Actually, we usually just got on the dance floor for the slow dances, when you just hang on to each other and slide around.
Then we moved to a community that has a lot of fun events, and friends suggested we take lessons. After a couple years, we can dance to just about any kind of music and do it often. The kicker came at my wife’s high school reunion this year when someone else on the dance floor came over and said “Why are you making everyone else look bad by actually doing real dances with each other?”
It’s fun.
Love it!
My dear departed father’s theory of dancing to rock-n-roll in the ’70s was to leave one’s feet planted and move everything else as much as physically possible. He was the source of endless theories, most pretty good.
I love dancing, not that I am good at it, and I never leave the dance floor at weddings. My wife requires libations, but with fortification will make her way onto the floor with me, so I am fortunate.
My wife and I took lessons several years ago. Even the lessons were fun.
If you read the whole thing through to the end, you’d realize that if if you can dress up to look like Sandra Bullock, your weekend still could proceed.
My dad and my father-in-law were both wonderful dancers. #winning. My dad (with all of us following) once crashed a Home Savings & Loan Christmas party and my father-in-law and I won the dance contest. We left before anyone figured out we didn’t belong.
That my in-laws raised four sons – none of them whom could dance worth a damn – was appalling to me and my family. One of my earliest memories was standing on my dad’s feet while he danced and I learned. What my two brothers lack in skill they more than make up for in enthusiasm.
My three sons have been dragged onto any dance floor (or garage, or kitchen) when the mood strikes. And they’ve been told over and over it’s an easy way to score a few easy points.
Years and years ago a good friend lamented to her husband “but we used to dance all the time when we first got married …” He and my husband cocked a brow. My friend and I made eye contact. “Quid pro quo … ” or something was my comment.
This dang song has been stuck in my head since I started following this post. (Mel Gibson in What Women Want)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wwkNLQ9MFk4
I would only dance if I were on fire.