Hold Me Closer, Chubby Dancer
I am not a dancer.
I do not Tango, Swing, Modern, Folk, Tap, Samba, Rumba, Jazz, nor Ballet dance.
I have been known to pirouette once in a while, but never on purpose.
Have I always been this way?
No.
At weddings, I’d been known to dance. However, haven’t danced at a wedding in a long time. One reason for that, at current weddings, I have no idea what songs are played.
Last wedding I went to, I did not recognize anything the DJ played after dinner was served.
Where are the love songs from the eighties (am I that old?)
(Apparently, yes).
Years ago, I was with future ex-wife, Arlene, on the dance floor of a friend’s wedding. Not sure what I did that prompted her next move, but she tossed her drink at my head.
Guess I was faster back then (like a Gazelle), moved left, and her drink hit a friend of ours square in the face.
Also, back then, when I danced, thought I was Fred Astaire. Unfortunately, (at least for those on the dance floor with me), I was more Flintstones than Astaire.
I’d spin my partner, pull her tight to me chest, then she’d bounce off and, if I didn’t hold her hand tight, would have landed across the room.
However, that aggressive dance move sometimes paid off.
In the late eighties, early nineties, there was a punk rock bar in New Brunswick.
The Melody.
The Melody was unique because every few weeks the murals on all the walls changed, thanks to the art students at Rutgers, the local college.
One night, with music raging, and mosh pit in full bloom (mosh pit = angry dancing), a friend of mine got knocked to the floor when hit from behind. It was a cheap shot, and by the time I was done ‘dancing’, I was the last man standing on the dance floor.
The most I danced in the last five years was after my sixtieth surprise party in the afternoon. Longest I drank (and stayed awake) since my shore house days. At a local bar afterwards, saw a band that played eighties music.
Great band.
I danced a lot that night.
There was a woman in the bar whose birthday was also that day. I remember I asked her to dance, bought her a drink, then suggested we go outside to talk.
Once outside, couldn’t think of anything to say, so just went back in side and danced some more.
Smooth, Al, so very, very smooth.
Let’s jump to last Friday.
A friend was going to see a band, so I met her at the bar. She was there with a few of her friends, a table outside. Sat with them, but I didn’t know the friends. However, over the course of the night, we all started to get to know each other.
At one point they talked about getting up to dance, however, I told them I don’t dance.
“Why not? No one judges you when you dance,” one woman said. “Look at that guy in the black shirt, he’s barely moving, and no one is judging him.”
“You just judged him,” I cried, “by pointing him out!”
Then added, “I don’t want someone pointing to me and say, ‘Look at the guy in the blue shirt, he’s barely moving’”
Apparently, though, when two out of four woman insist you dance, you dance.
With the band a few feet away, out in the dirt and gravel of this outside venue, I twisted my feet and moved my arms from side to side. The loose gravel gathered around my feet as I slowly corked screwed myself into the ground to a smooth rock-n-roll beat.
A few songs later, I was back on the gravel, as the lead singer made gyrated moves and, for some reason, wore a glitter ball helmet on his head.
More than a dozen people danced around me.
Are these my people, now?
Was this the new me?
Was this my new life?
Jump to last night, out with some friends, the band played a Tom Petty song.
The music was loud, and I was asked if I wanted to dance.
The dance floor was empty.
It stayed that way as I remained on my bar stool.
Not a surprise, because like they say…
...the pendulum will eventually swing dance back to where it started.
