Sunday, 1 January 2012

Funky Chicken

 I went dancing the other day with Sofia, my brother's wife at Scharinska, a club where alternative rock is enjoyed in all its variou forms. (I'm assuming it has forms.) Joel and Jachin were somewhere in the peripheries, but neither wanted to dance, and so Sofia and I took to the dance floor by ourselves to intimidate the amaters and professionals alike.

Girls need to cut a place for themselves on the floor, which necessitates that they are unafraid of disapproval. I'm not sure what anyone else thinks of me (I'm there for the dance), but they all gave me a wide berth, which I can only assume meant they stepped back to admire me from afar as I stepped on some toes and caught some people in the ribs with my elbows. And can you believe it? Not one boy asked me to dance. Someone told me I perhaps might attract more suitors should I dance less violently, but I say, hang such notions! Banish the thought! It has always been my personal belief that if a boy is too afraid to challenge me to a dance off, he simply isn't husband material. I have no intention of contorting myself to make me more or less desirable.

The next morning, my sister wanted to know how it had all gone, how I had danced. "I've only ever seen you dance around at home." She naively assumed I moved differently in the public sphere. "When you flail around."
"Nope, that's pretty much it."
She was, I am happy to report, simultaneously disappointed and embarrassed.

No comments: