I was on
the dance floor flapping my arms like a wounded bird.
I looked
around at all the other people who were doing the same thing. We looked like
mental patients. I think everyone was having fun. At least they were smiling. There were no
spring chickens in the whole group. I am pretty sure everyone there was going
through some sort of mid-life crisis.
I did not
care that I looked like an epileptic crack head. I was having a great time and
knew I had to do something to make fodder for my column. Besides, I was in a
whole different state surrounded by people who had no idea who I was.
The bad
thing is I cannot dance. There is a disconnect somewhere between my brain and
my feet. I remember having dance lessons at the local recreation center back home
when I was much younger. The instructor would do a move and I would only have
to copy it. Simple, right?
After only
a few sessions, the instructor recommended I take art class.
How did I
end up in rural Oklahoma at a Czech dance hall in Garth Brooks’ hometown? Garth
was probably just as puzzled as I was.
My sister
in law decided she was going to throw herself a prom for her birthday. The
theme was “enchantment under the sea” like in the movie Back to the Future. I am not going to say how old she turned.
Someone
once told me asking a woman’s age, or telling, it is rude and bad manners. I
think she might take offense to having complete strangers knowing it was her
fortieth.
My lips are sealed.
My wife was
excited when she found out there would be a prom. She was finally going to get the
thing she always wanted- having me step on her toes. When she and I were dating
(in the Paleozoic Era) I opted not to go to my senior prom. That
disappointed her. It was to be the first of many from me in the years to come.
At that
time I was “too cool” for that. I really did not feel like going through all the
trouble of renting a tuxedo, making dinner reservations, and taking a shower. I
felt it was all so superficial for an iconoclastic hipster like me. I was too
busy being a non-conformist with all of the other non-conformists.
After many years
and three kids later, I saw this as a chance to rewrite history. So I took time
off from work to go to the prom.
I needed to
rent a tuxedo. I have only worn a tuxedo on a handful of occasions and each
time the tuxedo was over-sized I looked like a shrunken James Bond without all
the cool gadgets. Since my wife wore a black, “spicy” dress that made her look
like Rita Hayworth I had to wear something comparable.
Lucky for
me they had a zoot suit that matched. A “zoot suit” is an over-sized suit that
was very popular in the forties among the Latino set. Imagine my surprise when
the guy was measuring my inseam for a suit that purposely does not fit!
My tux was
nice. The shoes were made for a dwarf. So, I ordered a new pair and the correct
ones arrived without incident. My wife and I showed up at the party looking
like Rita Hayworth and Al Capone.
Everyone
else wore retro clothing from the early 80’s. There were mullets and
high-sprayed Aqua Net bangs everywhere. We were the only ones who went an
additional forty years earlier. It was not so bad since the venue had not changed
since the thirties.
On the
night, I only knocked my wife down one time. I think I may have done the
moonwalk. I had come full circle. Of the things on the “woulda-coulda-shoulda”
list I can cross off going to the prom. I did it. We had such a great time.
In a
hundred years when my progeny lay flowers on my grave, I hope this article explains
my epitaph.
“Dance? Nay.”
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