Sweet Fancy Moses

Whoa.

Until I read your comments on this post, I did NOT realize how many closet fans of the “stupid dancing movie” genre there are. I myself have a shameful love for these movies, too (of which Center Stage is my absolute favorite).

Unfortunately, they all have the unwelcome side effect of making me think that I too, can dance, when in fact, I cannot. If my hips tell you otherwise, DO NOT believe them, those cheeky bastards. Hips do lie sometimes, despite what you may have heard to the contrary.

I don’t know what it is; I’m ordinarily not particularly suggestible. I didn’t watch Mission Impossible and think I could become a (wee, Scientology-obsessed) spy. Nor did my viewing of the Saw trilogy compel me to become a sanctimonious, tricycle riding, puppet-faced murderer (YET). But there’s something about the dancing movies that makes me think that I can do it, too. And this is problematic, for I am, without a doubt, the worst dancer in the history of anything ever.

I am in awe of people who say things like, “Oh, we’re going out dancing at a club tonight.” What does that even mean? You go OUT for the express purpose of dancing? Aren't you afraid? Don’t you need a manual, or at the very least, a choreographer to show you the program beforehand? Anytime one of our friends throws a party in a club, I try to avoid dancing at all costs. If circumstances ultimately force my uncoordinated ass on the dance floor, this is a breakdown of what my dancing looks like:

Are you jealous of my mad skillz? I thought as much. If you weren’t before, perhaps the haunting image of the forgotten Step 6 will sway you: Clap hands! Clap hands! Annnnnd…point fingers in the air!

It’s not like I never attempted to learn. In college, when going out was a weekly (if not nightly) event, I decided to try in earnest to learn how to dance. I’m sure for some that would involve taking lessons, or asking a more coordinated friend, but my method of choice involved the purchase of Britney Spears’ dance video. Naturally.

Oh, come on. The box said I would see her dancing in concert! And music videos! And let’s not forget the promise of sun and surf! Sun AND surf?! How was I to resist the lure? I’m not made of stone, people!

As I’m sure you can imagine, it did not go well. Even if I were to have mastered the intricate choreography of “Oops…I Did it Again!” (which I most assuredly did NOT), I would’ve felt quite the fool actually performing the dance anywhere. So, that ended poorly. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson, but no, following that was the Great Save the Last Dance Incident of ’01, which I shudder to even think about, let alone describe. I’ll leave it at this: “A mess of synaptic misfires resulting in a very distant relation of hip-hop dancing.” Trust me.

And yet.

Despite my desire to actually learn how to dance, and my repeated failings related thereto, I’m okay with being a really, really shitty dancer.

Because there’s one person who loves my dancing.

A few weeks ago, Toopweets was having an uncharacteristically rough morning. He was teething, and was pissed off (inconsolably so). Out of sheer desperation, I turned on the radio, heard Regina Spektor, and started my patented dance routine. Like magic, his tears disappeared. He started cracking the hell up. Clapping, even.

I'm not sure if he was laughing because he actually liked my dancing (doubtful), or because he, at his tender young age, was actually laughing AT me (more likely), but either way, it cheered him up.

He may be 8 months old, and a bit of a drooler, but I’ll take it.