Adventures of the dance dunce
December 11, 2001 | 12:00am
I’m back – Mr. Twinkle toes himself! And although I cannot even do a cha-cha number if my life depended on it, I’ve always enjoyed dancing.
No, I wouldn’t burn my feet in disco houses every week. However, the thought of being like Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing is sometimes too good a fantasy to pass up.
It was a clear Saturday night, and I had already downed several bottles of bee... er, ah, Pepsi, and my friends suggested that we "light it up" at this dance floor in Libis. I was a little hesitant (because of tango limitations), but when one of the guys offered to buy my ticket, I cheerfully accepted. At least I’d get another bottle of bee, ah, Pepsi.
The dimly-lit place was packed to the hilt, and since I didn’t have my glasses with me (I try not to wear them as long as I can still see 10 feet away), I kept bumping into everybody who stood in my way. We settled near the dancing circle and one by one, my buddies and their partners began moving to the beat. My date, who had been itching to swing for the longest time, gave me a puzzled stare. I looked away. I certainly knew what she wanted out of this, but I pretended not to notice. There was no way I was going to tell her that I danced like a gorilla in a banana suit. It was entirely up to her to find out.
And she did.
After much teasing, my date took me by the arm and hauled me off to the dance floor. She then began doing the dive, and pretty soon, other rated-R moves that I could only picture in my head. I was really shy to move my trembling knees at first, but as the sound system blared out Vic Sotto’s Awitin Mo, at Isasayaw Ko, I gave it a try. And folks, it was not the prettiest sight.
My friend Melanie described my dancing, as "someone infested with fleas," which, I think, was a little too harsh. While Roy, whose pot belly made it impossible for anyone to notice that he couldn’t do a foxtrot if his life depended on it, called me Mr. Elaine Benes. He said I was "kicking sand in the beach and my swinging arms looked like soggy French bread." I tell you, with pals like these, I don’t need enemies.
Which is why I won’t go dancing again ever (or until next year). And since I can’t even do the darn steps of the Macarena, what else would you expect from a disgruntled idiot like me but to bitch about such a dreadful and pathetic activity?
Hmph! I won’t, though.
You see, like some people, when what I want is totally out of reach, I tell myself that it is not worth it. I sour-grape a lot and even if it makes me feel much better most of the time, deep down I wish I did something more.
But sadly, this dancing fantasy of mine will probably remain such, for I know I can’t help it. Hehe, I mean, when we headed to the exit of the dance hall, my date tried to push past me so people would think we were not together. She was actually polite about my dancing abilities, and I really couldn’t blame her for doing what she did because my rumba reportedly looks like a shivering polar bear in the summer.
Pwe!
Nonetheless, I did not apologize for being a bad dancer. Even though I could feel some people staring at my feet, I kind of had a good time. For me, dancing is simply letting your hair down and having fun. It doesn’t really matter if you can tango like Al Pacino, although mediocrity in such an activity would already be sheer bliss.
And that’s not just defending the other non-dancers out there. It’s a rub on the ones who are light on their feet as well.
Hate mail, constructive criticism, kind words, requests, or any other thoughts about nothing are welcome. My e-mail is reuben_matthew@hotmail.com
No, I wouldn’t burn my feet in disco houses every week. However, the thought of being like Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing is sometimes too good a fantasy to pass up.
It was a clear Saturday night, and I had already downed several bottles of bee... er, ah, Pepsi, and my friends suggested that we "light it up" at this dance floor in Libis. I was a little hesitant (because of tango limitations), but when one of the guys offered to buy my ticket, I cheerfully accepted. At least I’d get another bottle of bee, ah, Pepsi.
The dimly-lit place was packed to the hilt, and since I didn’t have my glasses with me (I try not to wear them as long as I can still see 10 feet away), I kept bumping into everybody who stood in my way. We settled near the dancing circle and one by one, my buddies and their partners began moving to the beat. My date, who had been itching to swing for the longest time, gave me a puzzled stare. I looked away. I certainly knew what she wanted out of this, but I pretended not to notice. There was no way I was going to tell her that I danced like a gorilla in a banana suit. It was entirely up to her to find out.
And she did.
After much teasing, my date took me by the arm and hauled me off to the dance floor. She then began doing the dive, and pretty soon, other rated-R moves that I could only picture in my head. I was really shy to move my trembling knees at first, but as the sound system blared out Vic Sotto’s Awitin Mo, at Isasayaw Ko, I gave it a try. And folks, it was not the prettiest sight.
My friend Melanie described my dancing, as "someone infested with fleas," which, I think, was a little too harsh. While Roy, whose pot belly made it impossible for anyone to notice that he couldn’t do a foxtrot if his life depended on it, called me Mr. Elaine Benes. He said I was "kicking sand in the beach and my swinging arms looked like soggy French bread." I tell you, with pals like these, I don’t need enemies.
Which is why I won’t go dancing again ever (or until next year). And since I can’t even do the darn steps of the Macarena, what else would you expect from a disgruntled idiot like me but to bitch about such a dreadful and pathetic activity?
Hmph! I won’t, though.
You see, like some people, when what I want is totally out of reach, I tell myself that it is not worth it. I sour-grape a lot and even if it makes me feel much better most of the time, deep down I wish I did something more.
But sadly, this dancing fantasy of mine will probably remain such, for I know I can’t help it. Hehe, I mean, when we headed to the exit of the dance hall, my date tried to push past me so people would think we were not together. She was actually polite about my dancing abilities, and I really couldn’t blame her for doing what she did because my rumba reportedly looks like a shivering polar bear in the summer.
Pwe!
Nonetheless, I did not apologize for being a bad dancer. Even though I could feel some people staring at my feet, I kind of had a good time. For me, dancing is simply letting your hair down and having fun. It doesn’t really matter if you can tango like Al Pacino, although mediocrity in such an activity would already be sheer bliss.
And that’s not just defending the other non-dancers out there. It’s a rub on the ones who are light on their feet as well.
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