Dancing
by Michael Fiegel

"We can dance if we want to, we can leave your friends behind
'Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance
Well they're no friends of mine"
--Men Without Hats, "The Safety Dance"

"I don't dance."

I've said this probably a thousand times in my life to this point, which if you do the math comes out to about once every week or so, I guess. Math was never my strong point, though I was, and remain, somewhat better at it than dancing.

I'll readily admit that I come to this conclusion not from having actually attempted to hone my dance skills. But being a white male, and of Polish ancestry to boot, and having witnessed numerous white males (many Polish, many blood relatives) attempt to dance, I can safely say that I don't need to test my theory out to be certain that I'm not any good at dancing.

This is not to say that I have never danced. In fact, I have danced four times in my entire life, which spans about thirty-two years.

The last time was several years ago at my brother's first wedding, where I danced briefly, and only as mandated by traditions laid down in ancient times (i.e., the 1950s). Which is to say, I shared a brief dance with the Maid of Honor and then with the Bride, before quickly scurrying off to hide behind a tapestry somewhere.

The thing about dancing, see, is that everyone can see you doing it. I'm not shy or timid by any stretch of the imagination, but I am an introvert, and to me the idea of dancing in a room full of people is about as appealing as being naked in school on the first day of class. Assuming, of course, that you're not one of those freaks who finds that appealing.

You know who you are.

The second time I danced was a few years prior to the wedding, in my Junior year of college. The Little Theatre troupe were celebrating the closing night of a play (the name of which escapes me) in a lounge adjoining the theatre. As is common at these festivities, there was music, and yes, dancing. As is common when I attend such festivities, I was not in the room.

I had instead crept back into the empty theatre, where I and three of my closest friends (Marcella, Dan and Angela) were sitting around chatting amiably, listening to the music leaking under the door. All was going well until someone decided to play a Waltz, at which point Dan and Angela decided it would be a fine idea to dance around, leaving me in the awkward position of politely refusing to join in the fun with Marcella as my partner.

(Un?)fortunately, she decided for me, and before I had a chance to refuse I was swept up out of my chair and hurled around, ultimately dancing with both her and Angela. This was awkward for me on a number of levels, not the least of which was that of all the women in college, the two I was trapped in a dance with were the two I most wanted to ask out. Oh, cruel Fate.

Obviously, the number of gawkers present has naught to do with the humiliation involved. In fact, the second time I danced was possibly the worst of all.

I was a young man, perhaps fifteen years of age, and it was the night before a Winter Semi-Formal. A co-worker of mine had invited me on a blind double date: I would accompany her friend, and she would accompany her date. This was dizzying enough, but I decided it couldn't be too bad, since I didn't know the girl I'd be going with, and if it went badly I'd never have to see her again.

However, the night before the dance, my co-worker called to inform me that somewhat coincidentally, both her friend and her own date would be unable to attend the dance. She asked, of course, if I would go with her instead. I was not naive, despite my lack of experience with women. I quickly grasped that this had been part of a clever ploy on the part of my co-worker to get me out on a date with her. And so I did the only logical thing: I prayed to God to somehow get me out of it.

Shortly after getting off the phone with her, and prior to my prayer, my mother decided to ask me point blank if I knew how to dance. I did not. So she decided it would be a good idea to teach me. Few things in life are as humiliating as getting your first slow dance lesson from your mother in your living room, with Barry Manilow on the record player crooning "I can't smile without you."

There are a few others, but they're safely buried where only a trained team of psychoanalysts can ever hope to dig them out.

In one of the few instances in which the presence of a divine being was proven to me (and let me state for the record that the win to loss ratio is vastly in favor of absence when it comes to granting miracles), I did not end up attending the dance after all. A bad snowstorm, cold as the corsage in the freezer, blew into town that night, and the dance was canceled several hours before I was to leave.

I've probably been happier before and since, but right now I can't imagine when.

The years prior to that fateful night were filled with dances of various sorts, though they did not involve actual dancing on my part. Indeed, my whole life is filled with dances, all of which hold some significance for me, usually humiliating. I attended several High School dances (though not my Prom), and all I recall of them was cornstarch on the gymnasium floor, bad music, and spending the night in the bookstore playing Gauntlet and eating Charleston Chews instead of mingling with the girls they shipped in from other schools. Oh, yes. Did I mention I went to an All-Boys High School? No?

You might say that has something to do with the dancing thing. You might be right.

But there have been other dances, and every one brings to mind humiliation and defeat. Take your pick. Dirty Dancing? That was the soundtrack playing at a post-wedding party I attended for my cousin. In attendance were but a few non-relatives, one of whom happened to be an attractive female of about my age. On one of the few occasions on which I managed to summon up enough courage to actually deign to speak with a girl, I somehow coaxed her into playing Darts with me, and about halfway to asking her for her phone number she asked where I went to school. I told her. And she replied, sweet as can be:

"Oh really? My boyfriend goes there."

No one puts Baby in a corner? They'd better not; that's where I'm standing, head buried in hands.

Or how about Tangerine Dream's "The Dance," from the movie Labyrinth. You know the scene: the heroine is granted a magical, evil black dress by Evil, and she dances with herself as she's seduced to the dark side. The song is haunting, beautiful, disturbing... all words to describe the long-distance relationship I had with a girl named Julie back in the fledgling days of the Internet. "The Dance" was one of the songs she included on a mix tape she sent me for Christmas that year, along with an assortment of other gifts, and a pledge of love.

As with most things, this, too, fell apart after a time, and while I'm now good friends with Julie, to this day I cannot listen to "The Dance" and not think of cold December nights in front of a computer screen, waiting for e-mail.

And then there's Dead Can Dance, one of the bands my most recent ex-girlfriend introduced me to. One of her favorites while we were dating, every song from "Into The Labyrinth" reminds me of her, the good and the bad. As with Julie, I'm happy we've resurrected a friendship from what was, in the end, an obviously unsound relationship in which the bad outweighed the good by a bit. But again, this is another "Dance" that really evokes a sense of, well, failure in the eyes of someone.

Which brings me to the first time I remember dancing, which was as a child, at a Communion party for one of my cousins at a place called The Anchor Bar, across the street from my grade school. Tables were set up around the perimeter of the room, and in the middle was the dance floor. I was, however, just a child, and my single digits of experience hadn't yet taught me that when you walk onto a dance floor, people LOOK AT YOU.

I was about to learn.

I was happily swooping about the room, running with my arms held out like wings on a plane, dancing about and singing along to some song on the jukebox about Superman. I was six years old, and I was Superman. Nothing else mattered. Except, perhaps, for the cool red lights on the floor.

Lights?

I looked up. Somewhere along the line, I had managed to zoom right into the middle of the dance floor. And then the song stopped.

And. Everyone. Looked. At. Me.

And (oh no) applauded.

I think there was a moment where, frozen, I stared dully back, in sheer horror. And then I fled to the adjoining room, and spent the duration of the evening feeding quarters to Donkey Kong from my father's lap. Sobbing.

Though I was far too young to realize it, it was then that I swore I'd never dance again. Dancing meant people noticed you. Dancing meant people would look at you, and laugh at your antics. Dancing meant letting go of your inhibitions. Dancing meant vulnerability. And I wanted none of that.

Of course, over the years I've broken my ban on dancing thrice, and though it's always been awkward, each time has been, I admit, a little less humiliating. Maybe, after all, these things get easier to cope with the more you do them. It seems obvious enough, and maybe it's time to give it another try.

But not too soon; I'm averaging about once every eight years. Which means if I stick with tradition, I'll dance on my 40th birthday, give or take. It seems appropriate. As anniversaries go, the 40th is the Ruby anniversary. Ruby, red. The color of dance floor lights, of living room carpet, of curtains in an empty theatre, of flowers in a bridal bouquet.

The color of burning humiliation.