"Do you wanna join us for line-dancing?" This question was posed to me as I attempted in vain to dispense scalding caffeine in a 10 ounce dose into an 8 ounce (at best) tea cup. I direct you to my obvious dearth of spatial awareness skills.
"There will be wine..." At least I assume this was the spelling they intended. But let's be honest, I will be bringing both varieties with me to the occasion.
And this was where I had to confess my Elaine tendencies. No, not flashing the lady-goods on the holiday Christmas photo, but the fact that when I dance I spend the first five minutes thinking I look like Elaine dancing at the office party, and then convince myself I'm overthinking it, only to realize, (usually much later, and often in video format), that I wasn't overthinking it all. This girl is less Uptown Funk and more Uptight Flunk.
I have no ability to move gracefully, fluidly, or in a coordinated fashion. You could put me in ballet slippers or cement boots and my dancing would not be radically different. It's all well-intended, but I simply cannot motor plan something that looks intentional, and keep a beat, and not focus so hard that I look like I am in pain.
I took swing dance lessons once. Or more precisely, I took one swing dance lesson, one time. I love the music. I love the shoes. I love the glamour of the couples moving so in sync. In my head I can do it, in reality, I've got nothing. And my partner at the time, specialized in a more hip-hop/ street dance/ innovation that didn't lend itself to the swing dance milieu. They kept promising that we were going to move into switching partners throughout the night, but one look at the hot mess in our corner of the floor, and that never came to fruition.
I've been offered bellydancing classes, Zumba, classes, latin dance classes, tap, modern, jazz, and hip-hop. I'll tell you honestly, if sheer desire and persistence were all it took, I would be amazing. Instead I have the hips of my pilgrim forefathers. Ever facing forward, serious, and stolid. No hint of shimmy need apply. Marching I can do, Marengue I cannot.
I really don't know if I will ever master the combined skills of letting loose my anxiety and extreme self-awareness, blending my love of music and ability to appreciate rhythm with an ability to actually move to that rhythm, and find my inner danseuse. All I can tell you for now is that I have fully embraced the "Seuss" part of that equation.
So will I go line-dancing with you? Sure, but you may want me to simply bring the wine.
"There will be wine..." At least I assume this was the spelling they intended. But let's be honest, I will be bringing both varieties with me to the occasion.
And this was where I had to confess my Elaine tendencies. No, not flashing the lady-goods on the holiday Christmas photo, but the fact that when I dance I spend the first five minutes thinking I look like Elaine dancing at the office party, and then convince myself I'm overthinking it, only to realize, (usually much later, and often in video format), that I wasn't overthinking it all. This girl is less Uptown Funk and more Uptight Flunk.
I have no ability to move gracefully, fluidly, or in a coordinated fashion. You could put me in ballet slippers or cement boots and my dancing would not be radically different. It's all well-intended, but I simply cannot motor plan something that looks intentional, and keep a beat, and not focus so hard that I look like I am in pain.
I took swing dance lessons once. Or more precisely, I took one swing dance lesson, one time. I love the music. I love the shoes. I love the glamour of the couples moving so in sync. In my head I can do it, in reality, I've got nothing. And my partner at the time, specialized in a more hip-hop/ street dance/ innovation that didn't lend itself to the swing dance milieu. They kept promising that we were going to move into switching partners throughout the night, but one look at the hot mess in our corner of the floor, and that never came to fruition.
I've been offered bellydancing classes, Zumba, classes, latin dance classes, tap, modern, jazz, and hip-hop. I'll tell you honestly, if sheer desire and persistence were all it took, I would be amazing. Instead I have the hips of my pilgrim forefathers. Ever facing forward, serious, and stolid. No hint of shimmy need apply. Marching I can do, Marengue I cannot.
I really don't know if I will ever master the combined skills of letting loose my anxiety and extreme self-awareness, blending my love of music and ability to appreciate rhythm with an ability to actually move to that rhythm, and find my inner danseuse. All I can tell you for now is that I have fully embraced the "Seuss" part of that equation.
So will I go line-dancing with you? Sure, but you may want me to simply bring the wine.
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