A long time ago in a place far, far away, a kindergarten class decided to do a dance for an upcoming recital. The choreographer had the little girls in a formation with the tallest in the middle, gradually tapering down to the shortest at the ends. The girls practiced for weeks and weeks and looked forward to showcasing their talent.
The day of the recital arrived. It was a full house. Relatives traveled from hours away to see the kids perform.
When the time came for the girls to do their dance, the teacher realized that although they had practiced many times in different rooms, they had never practiced ON STAGE. “Oh well,” she figured. “They know their routine well enough. It’s too late anyway.”
The music started, and the dance began. Then halfway through the dance, the girl at the at far left FELL OFF THE STAGE.
A collective gasp rang through the room. Flashbulbs exploded left and right. A man lifted the shocked girl onto the stage and whispered, “Keep going!”
Flash forward twenty years. Yes, I was that little girl. My family still cracks up about it. I, on the other hand, have had terrible stagefright all my life (the main reason I never pursued the piano and violin) and I STILL CAN’T DANCE.
Allow me to clarify. Sure, I have no trouble shaking my booty along with the music at clubs, where it is crowded and most eyes are elsewhere (the liquor helps too). But I can’t do choreographed sequences or follow along to simple dance steps. I mean, I can do it, but I look like an idiot.
Over the weekend J and I attended a friend’s birthday party. After dinner, the restaurant gave us free salsa and merengue lessons. The instructor would show us a few steps while we followed along.
Hmm. I’m starting to get the hang of this…
Then the instructor shouted, “Now! With your partners!”
Panic sets in.
J even said at one point, “Babe, what are you doing?”
Yeah, so I still can’t dance.