Save The Last Dance

I don’t dance.

Ever.

Period.

For much of my existence this was a rule that no one really questioned.

Whenever there is a party or some cause for jubilation it’s not long before music is playing and people are moving rhythmically to their personal siren song.

I have never been this person.

I avoid any situation where people tend to congregate so I’m rarely somewhere where music is playing.

Usually, crowds plus music equals me sitting bored in a corner waiting for the event to end. It’s nothing personal I tend to fall towards the Sheldon Cooper side of personalities and it’s best for me to keep to myself.

Alas, as so often happens, I was thrust into a scenario where this would not be tolerated, and most likely, would be considered quite rude.

My brother got married this past weekend and I was the Best Man, a title I wish I could have held onto, but I was informed that it ended when the wedding did.

So, I was obligated to not fade into the wallpaper as I would usually do at these type of events.

There were pictures. There were toasts. I gave one, it went better than I thought it would. We ate. And then, everyone at the table started to disperse. I, only having a passing knowledge of what to do at social gatherings, sat at the table wondering where to go next.

Then the music started, and now you will see why I’m writing this.

I don’t dance. Remember this.

Nor do I have predilection to swaying side to side on a dance floor. I’m a large man, and I tend to bump into people. I spend a vast majority of my time excusing myself for doing just that.

But, there was a factor I hadn’t considered.

I have a little sister who doesn’t take no for an answer.

And despite all of my protests and begging for clemency, she did not let up.

It went something like this.

“Get up,” she said.

“No.”

“Get up now.”

“But, I don’t want to…”

And next thing I knew I was up and walking towards the dance floor.

There was a feeling of dread not unlike I would imagine filled a doomed pirate’s head as he walked the plank. (Editor’s note: I have no idea if people ever actually walked a plank. A better writer would look that up, but you’re stuck with me.)

But, we danced and I didn’t die and I lived to tell the tale. I was then informed that this might come up more than once during our evening. And, I was prevented from running and hiding.

And the night went on, and on. It was as most weddings are, a jocular affair, and despite my reservation about large groups, it was fun.

Later in the evening, to my surprise, I found myself looking for another dance partner. We kept missing each other, but making promises over and over again.

The party went on, as receptions tend to do, until finally the evening was starting to wind down, and the deejay called the last song. As Tiny Dancer played, I was once again dragged out to the dance floor, admittedly with slightly less resistance than the first time.

And on that dance floor a plan was hatched, next to me was another couple, and in a moment born out of desire to make those around us laugh, we suddenly switched partners.

My sister danced with his girlfriend, and one of the groomsman and I took center stage. Well, maybe not quite center stage, but never let facts get in the way of a good story.

The reaction was priceless as those around tried to stifle laughter, some doing better than others. My mother erupted in laughter at the sight.

Our promise now complete, we returned to our respective partners as the song finished. Everyone still laughing from the minor spectacle.

And so, I didn’t spend the night sitting in the corner by myself, which I would normally do, but instead dancing with my baby sister, and a fellow groomsman, which I think it is a far more interesting story.