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TRULY ENJOYING
THE LAST DANCE |
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Spring has sprung, and with it comes the occasional wedding.
A good friend's son is getting married next week, so it seemed like the
opportune time to let my wife know that I will no longer dance with her.
"That's nice," she replied when I broke the news to
her a few mornings ago. "May I ask why?"
"I'd be happy to tell you. There are two reasons: Number
one, I don't particularly like dancing, and number two, I'm tired of being
humiliated."
She looked up from her computer, where she was reading the
morning paper. "I suppose I'm the one who is humiliating you?"
"You said it, not me," I replied. "Maybe
'shamed' is a better word. All I know is I'm giving it up, just like I've
given up horseback riding and water skiing. I've danced my last
dance."
This wasn't a rash decision. I've thought about it for a
while. My wife is a good dancer. I am not. My wife has rhythm. I do not.
My wife loves to dance. I do not. Case closed.
I'm mainly talking about that swing crap, where you take your
partner's hand and do twirls and circles and move in concert. We've never
quite got that down.
When we first met, in our early 20's, I thought it was all
her fault. We were clumsy and simplistic, but I blamed it on her lack of
imagination. I just needed a better partner.
I distinctly remember when it all changed. We were at a
wedding, and a good friend who had rhythm and loved to dance asked my wife
to dance. I waved them onto the floor with a perfunctory, "Good
luck."
I can still picture it today. They looked like Fred Astaire
and Ginger Rodgers as they spun all over the dance floor in perfect
symphony. I turned to another friend, and simply said, "Oh, my God,
it's me, not her."
She's been dancing up a storm ever since---with other people.
With me, she's clearly wishing I had just a teeny, teeny bit of dancing
talent that would allow her to show what she can do. And boy, do I feel
it.
"Okay, I understand why you don't want to partner dance
with me anymore," she said, obviously not all that disappointed,
"but what about solo dancing where you do all that weird shuffling?
Are you done with that, too?"
"Yep. I'm still smarting from that comment someone made
when I came off the dance floor a couple of years ago. She wondered
whether I invented a new dance-'The Walker.' Apparently, I looked like a
90-year-old with a walker, minus the hardware."
"Besides," I added, "you seem to have more fun
dancing with your girlfriends these days. A lot of us guys would rather
just watch."
"That sounds kind of creepy," she remarked.
"As for your retirement from dancing, I must say I'm surprised. I
didn't realize you felt so humiliated."
"Would you play tennis if you couldn't get the ball over
the net?" I asked in a feeble attempt at an analogy. "Of course
not. And I've danced for about 55 years with no improvement whatsoever. I
suck, and I'm done."
It would have been nice if she had urged me to reconsider.
And it would have been nice if she would have said that she'd promise not
to humiliate me anymore, or maybe confirmed that she would try and let me
lead, for once, when we partner danced in the future.
But no, that wasn't going to happen. She wasn't going to miss
dancing with me, probably because it was never all that much fun for
either of us.
Instead, she'll dance with her girlfriends or with our few
male friends who still love to dance and have a flair for it. They're
still around, and I hate them.
As for me, I'll just sit on the sidelines. Both my daughters
are married and I've completed the awkward First Dance. There's nothing
more for me to accomplish in the dancing arena. I'm done.
Only one caveat. If someone plays the 1964 hit "Do You
Love Me" by the Dave Clark Five, I'm all in. For unknown reasons,
that song gets me going. "The Walker" gets thrown out and I
become a dancing fool. I let my wife know.
I'm just guessing, but when we go to the wedding in a
few weeks I'll bet she'll ask the band NOT to play it. |
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