Only because I’ve had a grande Mocha Valencia this morning do I think that the free dance lessons I took last night made any sort of sense.
First of all, I don’t drink coffee except on the weekends, and only then when I feel like I’ve earned those two shots of liquid espresso ecstasy. Coffee affects my body in much the same way as crack, although I’ve never really tried crack, but I’ve seen Trainspotting and since my ancestors are Scottish I know I’d end up prostrate on some floor in a puddle of cat feces if I ever did.
Whew. I’m amped.
Secondly, I’m a white girl with an incomprehensibly nonexistent ass and about as much rhythm in my limbs as an Asian database administrator. What possible reason do I have to be anywhere near a dance floor?
But I’m feeling extra positive this morning, what with the caffeine infusion all that creamy peanut butter I found in my file cabinet, and I really think I can take the dance steps I learned last night and push it to the next level!
Screw you, Dr. McJazzystein Instructor with the Happy Hands. I don’t have to be realistic. Coordinationally-inclined or not, I want to dance!
“Stop taking such large steps!” he screamed as I plowed into an innocent woman who thought she was sitting safely out of range in a far corner of the room, behind a large wooden table. “Small steps, lady! Small steps!”
And I thought, you know, all he had to say was, “It might be more technically efficient if you reduce the size of the movements, minimizing yardage in your dance area while maximizing energy. That might help a bit.” That’s all he had to say, and I would have been sufficiently encouraged to carry on.
Instead he howled, he hollered, he hemmed, he hawed. As if he had any expertise to diagnose me chronically helpless, that fraud. Everyone in the office this morning thinks that the dance moves I’m demonstrating in the kitchen are, although hyper and seemingly panicked, indicative that The Dooce can dance. Naturally!