Domino Dancing

I don’t dance under any circumstances. It goes along with that whole uncomfortable-in-my-body thing – I am mostly unaware of the space around me, and walk into walls, objects and I’ve stepped on my pets more than I’d like to admit (and the squealing – oh the squealing! – is miserable). Want to make me squirm? Force me to dance in a large group of people, preferably with Gloria Gaynor or ABBA swirling in the background, and I will melt into a puddle of miserable discomfort.

It’s not that I don’t feel the urge to move in time with music: au contraire, for I can rock out and head bob when I’m alone in a moving vehicle like nobody’s business. It’s that I cannot perform these movements in front of another living being, and that definitely includes Sunny. The last time I danced, I had consumed no fewer than 11 shots of tequila and was be-bopping along with my too-short-but-still-hot French Moroccan college boyfriend when I fell back, hit my head on a random barstool and got up and kept right on dancing after he picked me up off the floor. The next day was spent puking, shivering and feeling like I was wearing orthodontic headgear combined with some sort of vise-like grip around my temples. And that was that.

Nothing good comes from dancing. I know there are many who argue with me, but seriously, no. Just no. Yes, it’s awkward for me at parties to simply stand in the corner looking stiff and judgy, and yes, it made for many an uncomfortable evening out with my friends when everyone thought that heading down to Avalon on Lansdowne Street was a good idea (and oh by the way, this is never a good idea, even if you’re Paula Abdul.) And for the record, I’m not happy with this development: like many things, it’s a symptom of my odd shyness that manifests itself in bizarre, specific ways.

Repeat: it’s never a good idea for me to dance. I am even uncomfortable when other people are dancing, unless it’s a part of some sort of performance, and a night out at Wonder Bar doesn’t count. And, like the rock star situation, this is because I imagine that it’s me, and I can hardly contain my terror because they might MAKE ME DANCE, and then I will explode.

There’s a solid chance that this makes me a mirthless, pathetic sack of a human being who is trying to suck the last remaining joy out of humanity, and perhaps that’s a correct assessment. But the world, oh the world! would just be so much more comfortable for me if there was no dancing! I wouldn’t have to see people rock out, their awkward little bodies twisting in the wind like a giant mass of drying towels. Their jaws are always set tight, for they need to concentrate, as dancing is hard. I wouldn’t have to feel bad because other people feel bad that I am not dancing, because really, I am much happier this way. I would rather just stand on the sidelines, bobbing my head like Chris Kattan while sipping on a cocktail, thanks. And it would most definitely mean that I would not have to sit there eating multiple pieces of crappy cake while wedding revelers rock the night away to Mustang Sally.

However, like most things that involve some level of letting go, it is true that I am merely jealous of the dancers: Jealous that they can just let their little bodies go free with the rhythm without worrying about the awkward direction of their hips and flailing arms. I’m jealous that they can just screw their eyes shut and let go and not worry about how ridiculous they look. Because I can’t. Nope. No can do. My flailing arms have taken out entire soup displays at the supermarket just moving them normally – I shudder to think what deliberate arm-flailing would do.

You know that song – that incredibly annoying, twee, and interminably frustrating song – “I Hope You Dance?” Every time I hear it, I sincerely hope Lee Ann Womack falls over and clonks her head hard enough to require stitches while cutting a rug at her next family function. Maybe then she wouldn’t be such a judgmental pain in the ass about those of us who choose to sit it out instead of dance, and intimate that we are all going to burn in the fiery depths of hell because we lack faith and dancing. (I know, I know, I’m doing the same to the dancers. The irony is not lost on me.)

Actually, the main reason I wish they would stop playing that song is so that women with a penchant for acid washed jeans and big hair will stop playing it at their weddings and writing the lyrics all over their websites with giant airbrushed hearts, flowers and kittens, screaming things like, “DADDY! I luv u always and foreva…I HOPE U DANCE. Lotsa LUV AND KISSES – BRANDI.” (The ‘i’ must be dotted with a pink heart.)

Separately, it’s been a painfully uneventful weekend at Chez Jonniker, unless you count a level of work stress eeking from Adam that can be picked on Doppler radar as a giant angry-looking blob. I can FEEL the stress oozing from his pores like a meal of old roasted garlic. I feel just wretched for the guy, but honestly, I’m doing my best to avoid him. Hence, I have been living my life in a strange, yet not unpleasant, vacuum. If there was a single goddamn thing worth photographing or reporting on, believe me, I would. I am as sick of seeing those giant hunks of meat in the corner as you are. And lo, maybe we’ll have a hurricane to talk about! Whoo hoo!

(As if to illustrate his ornery nature, Adam just exploded in a fit of irrational rage because our favorite weatherman is not briefing us on the status of Ernesto: “What the fuck, is he on vacation? Does he not know we need him? THIS IS RIDICULOUS.”)

*Pet Shop Boys.

20 comments August 27th, 2006