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Dances, er... Sort of

By H.G. Miller

Once a year, we human beings find ourselves compelled to celebrate the day we entered the world and started accumulating debt. We do so by forcing our friends further into a life of servitude to the fine Visa folks in South Dakota or wherever it is they hide away with all of our money.

We buy gifts and we party.

One such party happened this weekend, and it led me to a realization much more profound than any flippant remarks about living in a deficit ever could. I realized this: I can't dance. Not even a little bit.

Sure, we all have some sort of head-bobbing instinct that shows itself whenever a song that particularly moves us comes on the radio. For me, unfortunately, that song is Ice Ice Baby by Vanilla Ice, and they don't play it on the radio very often, and with good cause.

Despite my handicap, I still make the occasional attempt to mimic Kevin Bacon's stirring performance in Footloose. Perhaps my problem is a little more obvious…

Anyway, as I was at a club this weekend, and there was a DJ spinning (y'know, yo?), I figured I would give it another shot. I could here the drum beat. Really, that was about all I could hear. That and some car alarm sound. I think it was part of the music. No matter, I was going to forge ahead.

I dove into the crowd. I guess stage dives aren't that popular these days, because nobody caught me and I fell pretty hard on the left side of my face. I still had enough consciousness to stand up and began wobbling toward the bar to get some ice for the searing pain in my cheekbone.

People kept bumping into me. I was seeing stars. I could barely stay standing, and then, some girl came up to me and began bobbing away.

“Where'd you get that move?” she screamed at me.

“Whhmmagph,” I responded.

She smiled. Must have been high. No matter, I was dancing with a partner for the first time since my aunt's wedding when I was in the fifth grade and had to partner up with my weird cousin - the one with the lazy eye and a bald patch over her right ear - and at any rate, this girl seemed to have all of her teeth and was wearing a rather skimpy blouse. So, I played through the pain and kept on dancing.

I put John Travolta to shame on that dance floor. I waved my arms, shook my pelvis, and you'd better believe I backed that ass up. Okay, so I backed into some football-linebacker-type guy with big muscles and no sense of humor, but hey, at least both sides of my face were numb after that. I like it when things match.

I only stepped on this girl's feet a couple of times (maybe ten), so I was feeling pretty good about my chances in the evening. I wanted the DJ to play a love song, but I guess Biggie didn't write any.

Once the music stopped, I decided to make my move. I ran a sweaty hand across my sweaty face and let the excess sweat fling away from my body into some other girl's hair in a way sexy manner. Then I said, “Hey.”

Maybe I was too aggressive, because the girl just smiled and turned away from me. Then, she took off in a dead sprint. Well, not really a sprint - I had hobbled her pretty good - but she was scooting away pretty quick. I didn't mind, though, because I had stared down my fears and danced the night away.

Life is all about overcoming challenges, you know.