There are three things that I’ve long wanted to do in my life, but which seemed unlikely I’d ever achieve: To be a stand-up comedian, to be a radio baseball commentator, and to be able to dance well enough that I could do it in public without embarrassing myself.
I’ve attended many concerts and weddings and various other celebrations where lots of people danced—but I wasn’t among those people.
In high school, I was the consummate wallflower. I’d sit in the bleachers and watch other, cooler students do their adept dance-floor moves. I envied them, these teenagers who had rhythm and self-confidence, who could lose themselves in the music while maintaining an artful and poised comportment. I was “artful” off the dance floor, but I was never poised anywhere, except firmly in the bleachers.
However, I do have a history of dancing during “not-ready-for-prime-time” hours. My mother says she’s observed me dancing in the bathtub in the middle of the night—a behavior she attributed to my propensity for sleepwalking. I’ve always had an active dream life, so I suppose that sleep-dancing in the tub was a subconscious attempt to manifest my dance dreams.
As a wannabe-dancer-but-much-too-inhibited adult, I developed a habit of dancing and singing in the privacy of my bedroom. I do the singing part very loudly and out of tune, and I do the dancing part with wild abandon and arms flailing. This practice has sometimes frightened the chance spectator who happens into my room.
When I’m surprised by an unsuspecting observer, I feel instantly embarrassed. I immediately cease my song-and-dance routine for the sake of its victim—but in my heart I feel a sadness and regret for the loss of a ritual that is self-integrating and oddly spiritual.
I’ve often watched wistfully from the sidelines as people happily join hands to do the Hora or the Hokey Pokey. Put my left arm in, then my left arm out? That’s a terrifying thought! Knowing me, if I even managed to get my left arm “in,” it would fly so far out in its opposing motion that I’d never again reunite it with the rest of my body parts—much less be able to “shake it all about.”
As far as the “turn yourself around” part, I could probably manage that. But I’d likely turn too many times, get dizzy, and wind up falling flat on my rear end.
So as I sat on the sidelines watching my Tongan relatives dance in public with wild abandon during my Tongan cousin’s wedding reception, it seemed judicious that I seek an inconspicuous corner where I could flail my limbs around from a horizontal position, since I’m clearly more coordinated when I’m lying down.
Just as I was contemplating potential inconspicuous corner opportunities, I glanced across the table at my father, who also doesn’t dance in public. I doubt he has ever danced privately in his bedroom. But he seemed a bit wistful as he watched his Tongan kin celebrate. “He’s old,” I thought. “He may never make it to another wedding. Get brave and go for it,” I told myself. “It really could be now or never for him.”
So I grabbed Dad by the hand and tried to pull him onto the dance floor. He wouldn’t budge. “Better late than never, Dad,” I said, like he had said to me many times in my youth.
“Better never than late,” he replied. I let go of his hand in defeat, his bottom still planted firmly on his chair.
As I looked back at our table, I noticed my mother’s eyes welling with tears. I suspected that Ma’s tears were in empathy for the dance proposition my father had just rejected. I knew that during their forty-eight years of marriage, my mother had also had plenty of dance propositions rejected by my father. I suspect that my mom is a middle-of-the-night bathtub dancer like me. She craves a dance fix, but she’s given up hope that her need for a partner will ever be satisfied by Dad. I realized that was why she was getting moist around the eyes. It was clear that we’d both have to get our dance fixes elsewhere.
“Please, Ma, could I have this next dance?” I asked, extending my hand to her.
“Enchantee,” she said as she stood and curtsied.
We joined our much less inhibited, joyful Tongan in-laws, who welcomed us literally with wide-open and non-flailing arms that embraced us as we embraced the dance floor.
We did dances we’d never heard of, Ma and me. We danced the hiki-tiki, the maka-laka, the mumbo-jumbo, the hula and the Little Black Sambo. We did line dances and the Macarena and yes, the Hokey Pokey. I got my left arm in without incident, though it hit my mom in the face on its way out—but I didn’t worry over it, as the large Tongan man to my right had the same mishap, and gave me a bloody nose. He just laughed, handed me a Kleenex, and told me to hold it to my nose for five minutes. He never stopped dancing. I followed his example, and there was something exhilarating to me about dancing with a tissue tucked up my nostrils.
Ma and I wrapped up the wedding celebration by leading the crowd in the Hora, which, being newly liberated Jews, made us feel very giddy and proud. Dad stood up and clapped to the music with some semblance of rhythm, and applauded wildly with the Tongan in-laws afterward, as Ma and I took a bow.
For Dad, that’s as much of a dance as he’s ever likely to do. As for Ma and me, we’re not going to be wallflowers anymore. I won’t be seeking inconspicuous corners for horizontal solos. We won’t be passing up another opportunity to move our bodies akimbo with the rest of the happily dancing, more coordinated people.
But if you should happen to encounter Ma and me at an event involving dancing, it might be prudent to keep an eye out for flailing arms.
And guard your nose.
And bring Kleenex.
