Learning As I Go

By TRICIA NEAL CJ Staff Writer
Commonwealth Journal

February 26, 2006 February 27, 2006 04:45 pm

— Last weekend, I had the opportunity to take my son to a “Sweetheart Ball” at his elementary school.
The flier that was sent home a few weeks before the event promised an evening of family fun, games, snacks — and a live DJ and dancing.
I was intrigued. With dreaded thoughts of upcoming high school dances to which I won’t be invited, I saw this as an opportunity to observe my 8-year-old interacting with his peers in a social setting — and a chance to be entertained watching elementary-age children attempting to dance.
Imagine my surprise to see that many of the students weren’t “attempting” to dance. They were dancing, and they were doing it quite well. I was amazed at their inhibition, their sense of rhythm, and their ability to flat-out break it down (or whatever the correct term is for that these days) to the songs that were blaring over the loud speakers.
Shortly after we arrived, I encouraged my son, who was sticking suspiciously close to my side, to find some of his friends out on the dance floor. He made a few steps in his friends’ direction, and promptly returned to my side.
“It’s too crowded, and everybody is hitting me with their elbows,” my son complained. “I’m ready to go.”
I wasn’t going to let him leave that easily, so I encouraged him, once again, to brave the wild throngs and try to have a good time.
As he stood at the edge of the dance floor, shaking his head at the shameless outbursts of energy displayed by his friends, I suddenly felt a little responsible for his unusual display of timidity.
I can’t dance. Therefore, I’ve never been able to pass the joy of dancing along to my son.
I deeply regret the fact that I never learned nor taught myself how to dance. See, in spite of the fact that I couldn’t dance if my life depended on it, I actually love the idea of dancing.
I watch others dancing, and am insanely jealous. I would love to have been able to dance like Ginger Rogers or Paula Abdul, but the most advanced steps I ever learned were some useless square dancing calls as a child and the emabarassingly easy “Macarena” moves as a young adult.
Of course, there are the tell-tale reel-to-reel home movies my grandparents have of me as a toddler, attempting to keep up with my aunt’s Travolta-era disco moves. But that doesn’t count. Let’s focus on my post-potty-training years.
I never took tap or ballet lessons like many of my childhood friends. As a young girl in the 1980s, I never attempted breakdancing out of the fear that I actually would break something, and I apparently wasn’t coordinated enough to do Michael Jackson’s “Moonwalk.”
As a teenager and as a college student, I attended schools where dancing was not allowed — so my chances to learn popular party moves such as the “Electric Slide” and “The Hustle” were virtually eliminated.
Slow dancing? Out of the question.
And, although I love music, the concept of dancing has always been so mind-boggling for me that I never even figured out how to efficiently bounce to the beat of a good tune while I’m house-cleaning.
At this point in my life, regrettably, I believe I have reached the point where this old dog can’t be taught any new tricks — at least not with anything involving fancy footwork or hip gyrations.
So, back to my son’s school dance.
After his third attempt to venture onto the dance floor, he finally admitted his problem to me.
“I don’t know how to dance,” he shouted at me above the music.
“I don’t know either, honey,” I admitted.
“Just move to the beat of the music, and copy what your friends are doing.”
Dancing, I would assume, is something you kind of have to learn as you go.
Eventually, my son became one of many waves in the sea of dancing children.
Occasionally, I would catch a glimpse of him bobbing his head or moving his arms to the music — rather awkwardly, but at least he was trying. And, while he seemed a little uncomfortable at first, by the end of the evening, he was one of the last to leave the dance floor.
Suddenly, the meaning of the words to a popular song hit me like a ton of bricks.
“When you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance...” the song goes.
And that’s exactly what I wished for my son — at that moment, and in all his moments to come.
Don’t let the opportunities life gives you to enjoy things pass you by. Whether it’s a chance to score for your team, to follow a career opportunity, to ask out the woman of your dreams — or just a chance to lose yourself in the rhythm of a song — don’t miss out by standing at the edge of the dance floor just because you’re afraid you won’t know how to dance once you get out there.
Dancing, and so many things in life, must be learned as you go.