Everyone has a secret wish. But, not everyone spills their guts on a blog.
So, know what?
I really really wish I could dance.
I mean DANCE, muthahs. I mean Karen Kain, Billy Elliot, Fred and Ginger DANCE.
I can do the Lindsay shuffle. I’m really self-conscious about dancing, because I’m remarkably uncoordinated and a bit like Big Bird, so I generally have to have a lot of liquor in me.
Back in the community theatre days, I was in the back line of the chorus. Not because of my voice – I have a terrific voice. It was the dancing, the terrible, terrible, two-left-feet.
I can slow dance, mostly because it’s just vertical sex with clothes on. I can slam dance, because it’s mostly just jumping up and down and screaming. But I can’t really dance, expressively and beautifully.
Part of it’s just genetics. I’m not a tiny, boobless, superfit ballerina type. I don’t think I’d be very liftable, frankly. I also come from a long and distinguished line of gorky dancers. We don’t dance, don’t ask us. If you really want us to, you need to buy us a couple of drinks first.
I was at a Christmas dance last week, and apparently did have enough liquor in me (or so I was told the next day). I danced and danced. I danced so much, my knees seized up the next day. I danced with everyone, including buddy Lois, the best little dancer you ever SAW.
But even through all the liquor, I still kinda felt like an ostrich.
I’d love to take ballroom dancing lessons, but I don’t think it’s a good way to meet single hetero guys.
And so, given the choice, I usually do dance. I should sit on the sidelines, but I don’t. Whatcha gonna do, call the Boogie Police?