Dancing with the Scars (Emotional Ones)

Photo Credit: Seth Anderson

We all have emotional scars of some sort and my nemesis has always been dancing. I enjoy watching all types of dancing, but when it comes to taking the dance floor, I can't do it. I have been pressured into an occasional slow dance at a wedding, my senior prom, or some other special event, but when it comes to getting' down, I'm not getting up. I actually find dancing, even slow dancing, physically, as well as emotionally, painful. After two minutes of uncomfortable dancing, my hips, knees, and feet hurt.

The last time I danced was at my son's wedding - the Hora. One of my sons, Benjamin, actually broke his arm at the wedding trying to impress the ladies with his slick dance moves. There is nothing like leap-frogging over another dancer and breaking your arm to impress women.

Someone by the name of Vicki posted a comment on one of my blog posts to suggest that I dance with my wife as a way of getting exercise. At first thought, I would rather be chased by a pack of rabid pit bulls then dance. She did suggest that we do it privately (at home) which would eliminate that performance anxiety. I do realize that dancing would be a good exercise outlet, but in order for any exercise to be effective, it needs to be sustainable. I would have to LIKE dancing, and I do not. Of course, bad dancing may have more aerobic benefit than good dancing.

I do not have a problem singing in front of crowds. In college, I was in a Kingston Trio-like group, and I have sung in barbershop quartets. My barbershop group even sang the National Anthem at an Oakland Raiders game back in the ‘70s. But any type of dancing in front of other people terrifies me.

I have been on numerous (live) television shows. I have given medical talks in front of thousands of people. I once gave a lecture on "Fever in Children" dressed as Satan, complete with horns and pitchfork. Again, I had no problems. When I entered the lecture hall to the music of Fever by Peggy Lee, I did try to dance a bit. I quickly stopped when I realized how badly I was doing. One of my colleagues did mention to my wife that, "that boy has no rhythm", further validating what I have always known.

Like many men, I have to tolerate Dancing with the Stars, a virtual showcase of good dancers teamed with klutzes, like myself. They have fat people, old people, and the rhythm-impaired. Unfortunately, I am all of those. My wife loves that show and keeps pointing out the big guys that have learned to move like Fred Astaire. She insists that a singer has natural rhythm. I insist that I do not. Even when the barbershop quartet would do a synchronized move, I would be doing something totally different.

My mother loved to dance, mostly the polka, which I found to be odd. My first wife's family were Slovak and they, too, loved to polka. In my experience, the vast majority of polka dancers are heavily influenced by alcohol. Since I never drank alcohol, I blamed my lack of polka enthusiasm by simply being sober.

My high school years were in the late 1960's - a period of some very odd dancing styles. In rural Pennsylvania, we did not have free-loving, dance-crazed hippies - just hillbillies. Hillbillies liked to clog to banjo or fiddle music, or even church music. Again, I did not fit in. After college, I moved to San Francisco, working in a clinic a few blocks from the Haight-Ashbury district. Pot-smoking hippies loved to dance, and since I did not smoke pot, I mostly sat and watched. Then came the disco years, yet another reason not to dance. Besides, I didn't own a white disco suit.

As I am writing this post, Dirty Dancing is playing on the television in another room. I really enjoyed that movie, but I did not envy those dancers one bit. I only identified with the rhythm-impaired sister singing the Hawaiian song. One of my favorite movies of all time is Billy Elliott, but in this one, I identify with the caring father - not the ballet dancer. I have gone to dozens of dance recitals, starting thirty years ago with my daughter, and ending about six years ago with my granddaughter. I find recitals interesting, but if I had to miss one, I would not be heartbroken.

I have tried to analyze myself to determine the origin of my emotional scars about dancing. I do believe that some of us are rhythm-impaired. I am not very good at sports either. Both dancing and sports require a certain level of rhythm and coordination. I can sew up a lacerated eyelid or lip on a struggling two-year old. Let's see a dancer do that!

Maybe it started in kindergarten. Kindergarten teachers (Miss Hickle) loved to make us dance; sort of an evil spell. I distinctly remember doing the hokey-pokey. I felt the name of the dance was appropriate: it was hokey, and I was pokey. The hokey-pokey was NOT what it was all about.

I didn't fare in better by junior high. A group of guys would be sitting on the bleachers watching girls dance with each other. Girls had to dance with each other, since we were on the bleachers. Occasionally, one of the guys would go up and ask someone to dance - usually a slow dance. We would laugh at him, but secretly envy him for his nerve, and of course, the fact that he was holding a nice-looking girl very close. The Twist was the rage about that time, perhaps the easiest dance in the world to learn. I couldn't do it. I had problems with the hula-hoop, too.

My high school girlfriend was a cheerleader. She had lots of rhythm and liked to dance. I would feel obligated to dance with her from time to time, mostly so no one else would dance with her. Guys are like that. We won't dance, but we don't want anyone else dancing with our women.

In college, I didn't dance either. I went to a Baptist college in West Virginia for my undergrad. We had a joke: "Why don't Baptists have sex standing upright? They are afraid someone will think they are dancing." I told that joke to one of my patients - a Baptist minister. He loved it. For reasons unclear, some Baptists feel that dancing is ungodly. In Appalachia, only the fringe Pentecostals danced - with snakes!

My wife loves to dance, unfortunately. I gave my blessing when she wanted to do line dancing with a neighbor. She tried her best to get me jealous about other guys in the class, but it didn't work. I dislike doing all types of dancing, but some I dislike more than others (polka, line-dancing, fast dances). I once weakened a bit and agreed to take dancing lessons at Arthur Murray, but I never followed through. I chickened-out. Oh, yeah, that's another dance I don't like - the Chicken Dance.

I do envy those who can dance, and those that love to dance. It looks like fun. I am not sure where those dancing scars originated, but for now, I am destined to be a clumsy wallflower, to sit on the bleachers of life watching others cutting the rug, tripping the light-fantastic. I will just do my medical stuff - perhaps putting a cast on my son who broke his arm dancing, treating someone with the Tijuana Two-Step, or someone who may be "Dancing with SARS". The way I look at it, not everyone can dance. Perhaps, not everyone should dance.

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