Dance ’til It Hurts

What’s on my mind? It’s never a good sign when you walk into a dance hall (1) squinting because you’ve left your glasses at home and (2) realizing you’ve mistaken the band’s instruments for exercise equipment.

Himself and I attended a dinner dance, last night. An actual dinner dance! I’ve never been to a dinner dance. Never! I’m proficient at eating dinner, but have no idea how to dance.

The band had already played two numbers and I’d already gulped two martinis and no one had yet claimed the dance floor, so I told Himself: “Let’s dance!” He stared at me, dumbfounded.

“You’ve always said you don’t know how!”

“I’ll figure it out!” I said. “How hard can it be?” Very hard, apparently.

Easing off my orthopedic Oxfords, I slipped around the stage, terrified of sliding into someone’s ice cream and chocolate sauce.

We lasted one dance before Himself threw his neck and back out, took two painkillers, declared he’d had enough dancing, and retired to a chair. 

I kept waiting for someone - anyone - to ask me to dance, but no one did. I even asked two women, each of whom said she was indisposed (I didn’t know a 78-year-old could have menstrual cramps, but I’m not a gynecologist). 

My heart hardened when I overheard the fake-cramps woman whisper to her hypochondriac friend: “No way, Jose!” (Hmmff! They’re obviously members of the Clichés R Us Fan Club).

One of the men at our dinner table said I danced just like Elaine Benis. Not being among the 189.3 million cool people who watch Seinfeld reruns, I had no idea who Elaine Benis was, so took it as a compliment. 

I quite like this dancing stuff. I should try it again. Neck-up, I definitely look better without my glasses. Neck-down, I’d definitely look better if I tried some of that exercise equipment. 

I’d also accomplish three things: Blowing my own horn as I slither into the band, making new frenemies in the Clichés R Us Fan Club, and kicking up the heels of my orthopedic Oxfords, menstrual cramps notwithstanding.

© Nicole Parton, 2019