I stood in front of a bowl of Ghost Pops, clutching a polystyrene cup of Oros. The DJ pressed play, and Michael Jackson’s Thriller spilt out of the cassette tape.
A sprinkling of boys and girls found their way onto the dance floor, which doubled as David Brown’s parents’ lounge. David’s mum was the DJ. The music she played had been recorded from the radio.
David’s 12th birthday was the scene of my first dance party. Earlier that day, I stood in front of the mirror and practised some moves.
I resembled John Travolta. At least, I thought I resembled John Travolta.
While stuffing my Ghost Pop-stained face, I watched my peers moonwalk, wiggle their hips and twirl with puppy-dog enthusiasm, and realised I was out of my depth.
I was about to top up my Oros when Gina, a popular girl with a soft spot for misfits, intercepted me. She asked me to dance with her.
The next thing I knew, I was on the dance floor, my arms dangling awkwardly by my sides, my head flopping about, my legs stiff.
I wish someone had told me to dance like nobody’s watching, because I could feel dozens of tween eyes burning into me as I humiliated myself.
Gina was trying to be kind, but the experience scarred me.
I tried dancing occasionally over the years, but each time I was transported back to David Brown’s 12th birthday party and my beat-deaf moves, and I felt like a vulnerable tween once again.
Years later, my soon-to-be wife and I were planning our wedding. She wanted there to be dancing.
I put my foot down, and not in a tap-dancing kind of way.
I don’t, can’t, won’t dance, I said. She shrugged.
We didn’t dance at our wedding. It was something I paid for in subtle ways over the years.
Whenever we had to decide on something to do, what to eat, where to live, or what to name our dogs, my wife shook her head and pulled out her dance card.
“You wouldn’t let me dance at our wedding, so I get to decide,” she’d announce.
I remember feeling pleased with myself for winning that one. Now it doesn’t feel like a win.
We went to a wedding recently, and after the I do’s, speeches and toasts, a dance floor opened up.
Within the first few piano chords of ABBA’s Dancing Queen, people sprang out of their chairs.
My wife hit the dance floor; I hit the champers and the canapés.
Nursing a glass of champagne, I watched her cut loose. She was in her element.
Whitney Houston’s I Want to Dance with Somebody came on, and she motioned for me to join her and be the somebody she wanted to dance with.
I wanted to. I really did. Instead, I took a swig of champagne and popped another cheesepuff in my mouth.
For the next couple of hours, I watched the fun and wondered why I don’t, can’t, won’t dance (and it’s not only my creaky knees).
I thought back to my 12-year-old self and realised I was scared of dancing because I was afraid of being exposed. So, I made sure it never happened, which meant refusing to dance at my own wedding. And that meant refusing to let anyone else dance either.
I’ve spent much of my life afraid of being seen.
Watching my wife dance at the wedding, I saw how much joy it brings her. We raise our children together and have built a life side by side — so perhaps it’s time I joined her on the dance floor.
It’s our 20th anniversary in December, and — please don’t tell my wife — to mark the milestone, I plan to take her dancing.
The only problem is that I still don’t know how to dance, which is why I’m getting some guidance from a dance etiquette manual called The Rules of Dancing. It was first published in the year 1529. But it’s never too late to learn.
So far, it’s taught me to steer clear of onions or leeks to avoid foul breath and to refrain from spitting near young ladies. Also, I mustn’t look miserable or strained.
Finally, and I think this is an important tip for dancing and life in general: never pass gas while dancing. Clench your teeth and compel your rear end to restrain it.
The only thing left to do is to steel myself, switch on livestreaming, and dance like the whole world is watching.