I don’t get dancing. I have no desire to dance, yet I can tell it’s something in people – just go to a wedding and watch kids dance until they collapse. There’s 20 dancing shows on TV that millions of people watch. In fact, I would probably never ever dance…sober.
In college, I had quite a few beers one night and decided, for some bizarre reason, to tear up the dance floor…by myself. What followed was a spinning, knee-dipping back and forth mini-disaster my buddy Jason called the “Heel-toe”, due to the heel to toe shifts. I actually got an audience of people, which for me, is the worst thing possible. So, whenever the moon was full and I drank a lot, the heel-toe would resurface much to the delight of my pals.
Well, I had pretty much put that move to rest for all times, after all, I have a girlfriend now and it’s really not fair to unleash all the sexy of the heel-toe on the ladies of the world. With great power comes great responsibility. Last weekend, with a couple requests at a wedding (and more importantly, quite a few beers), the heel-toe made its return, much like a Mr. Hyde coming back to ruin the quiet life of Dr. Jekyll. Everyone on the dance floor was quite amazed at the variety of amazing I unleashed…or they were stunned I was actually doing whatever in the hell I was doing. My only saving grace was the fact that some chick was dancing like Elaine at the office party on Seinfeld. I can’t even bad dance better than everyone…well, better stick with my even more well-known dance move – drinking in the dark corner of the bar.