a blog site about grandchildren, children, parents, husbands and whatever else...
Sunday, December 16, 2012
A dancing duo
Marc and I thought we knew how to dance.
At least to a lively beat.
We've never been great at the slow stuff. We mostly shuffle along trying to keep from bumping into each other's feet and we enjoy the close contact but we're no great shakes.
However, put on a rock'n roll record with some singing by lively young men and we can move.
At least, that's what we believed before the company party dance the other night.
The DJ (who is actually the mayor of Orem who moonlights now and then playing tunes) asked everybody to come up and try out the dance floor in the new convention center "ballroom."
He was fairly insistent.
So we went on up with the rest of the marketing team and found a tiny patch of available floor.
The music started and everybody was waving their arms in the air and doing a dance with no similarity to the "Twist" or "The Mashed Potato" or the surfing moves we did in high school.
It was insane.
Lots of people danced without partners and a good number were not only dancing but leaping, jumping and cavorting in a style that was not only impressive but rather dangerous, I thought.
One big guy backed right into me, hard.
I felt the discs in my back — which I've been carefully protecting since the doctor told me they were collapsing onto each other — sing with sudden pain.
I sort of gasped but no one noticed the "collision" and the music played on.
I'm fine and we ended up dancing like fools until we could dance no more. (I'm sure we were a sight, the pair of us oldsters amongst all these kids.)
But I think it's ironic that while I'm giving up skiing, sledding, jet-skiing and the roller coaster so I don't hurt myself any further, I get whomped on the dance floor.
What are the odds?