There may be trouble ahead, But while there’s moonlight and music and love and romance, Let’s face the music and dance. – Irving Berlin
I work hard to be a good husband. I try to be sensitive. I open my wife’s car door for her. I take her to see girly movies (I am the guy who saw the “Bridget Jones Diary”). When she’s not around, I page through her Victoria’s Secret catalogues so that I can understand her better. I have driven to Rite-Aid by myself through the blinding snow to buy nothing but tampons. I sacrifice. And then my wife has to go and shake our relationship at its very foundation by uttering the seven words dreaded most by heterosexual men everywhere: “Why don’t you ever take me dancing?”
Dancing? Gee, I don’t know ... Why don’t I ever lace our food with laxatives, or hide scorpions in our bed, or switch our toothpaste with axle grease? Yet she persists, because she, like all women, sometimes “just has to dance.”
“Oh, I had such a bad day, I just have to dance.” Or conversely, “I had such a great day, I just have to dance.” Or even, “Today was so on-the-fence between a good day and a bad day, I just have to dance.”
Men never “just have to dance.” There is nothing inherent to being a man that makes you want to “shake your booty.” If I’m out having a beer with my buddy, and he grabs my hand and says, “They’re totally playing my song! Let’s dance!” he’s probably getting a punch in the face. My wife, on the other hand, can get away with dragging me onto the dance floor, because dancing is directly related to sex. As in, if I don’t do it, I won’t be doing it. Dancing is also related to sex in that it makes my wife feel sexy. I personally feel about as sexy on the dance floor as Strom Thurmond in a thong bikini. Yet, to my great chagrin, I continue to find myself plodding around under the disco ball like a giant Weeble that wobbles but never falls down. I flap around the floor, mashing toes, bruising ribs, leaving a trail of carnage and mumbled apologies.
“Oh, excuse me.”
“I’m sorry. Was that your foot?”
“Oops. That will probably wash out.”
“Oh geez. Let me buy you another one.”
“Ooh, sorry. Tilt your head back until the bleeding stops.”
As my wife glides about with her eyes closed and a peaceful smile on her lips, she is completely unaware that, as she blissfully twirls and pirouettes across the floor, an angry lynch mob is forming to drive her husband right the hell out of Dodge. Later, in the car, she will tilt the seat back just a hair, snuggle down into her jacket, and sigh, “That was wonderful.” I will look over as much as my neck brace allows and smile.
I will never like dancing, and I will never like the fact that my wife likes dancing. She has repeatedly brought up the notion of dance lessons, convinced that after a few rounds at Arthur Murray I will be a regular “Grease”-era John Travolta – a guy who’s singing, dancing, and flashing his jazz hands, but still able to get away with wearing a leather jacket. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I could be the Al Jolson of the 21st century, minus the blackface. But I really H-A-T-E dancing. I hate it with a fiery passion. Which is why I am now asking myself, “Dumbass, how did you get talked into signing up for dance lessons?” Because I love my wife. Because it’s almost Valentine’s Day. Because just when I think that my wife and I couldn’t be a more mismatched pair, she fixes everything by uttering the seven sweet words that melt my heart like butter: “Let’s go out for wings and beer.”
I work hard to be a good husband. I try to be sensitive. I open my wife’s car door for her. I take her to see girly movies (I am the guy who saw the “Bridget Jones Diary”). When she’s not around, I page through her Victoria’s Secret catalogues so that I can understand her better. I have driven to Rite-Aid by myself through the blinding snow to buy nothing but tampons. I sacrifice. And then my wife has to go and shake our relationship at its very foundation by uttering the seven words dreaded most by heterosexual men everywhere: “Why don’t you ever take me dancing?”
Dancing? Gee, I don’t know ... Why don’t I ever lace our food with laxatives, or hide scorpions in our bed, or switch our toothpaste with axle grease? Yet she persists, because she, like all women, sometimes “just has to dance.”
“Oh, I had such a bad day, I just have to dance.” Or conversely, “I had such a great day, I just have to dance.” Or even, “Today was so on-the-fence between a good day and a bad day, I just have to dance.”
Men never “just have to dance.” There is nothing inherent to being a man that makes you want to “shake your booty.” If I’m out having a beer with my buddy, and he grabs my hand and says, “They’re totally playing my song! Let’s dance!” he’s probably getting a punch in the face. My wife, on the other hand, can get away with dragging me onto the dance floor, because dancing is directly related to sex. As in, if I don’t do it, I won’t be doing it. Dancing is also related to sex in that it makes my wife feel sexy. I personally feel about as sexy on the dance floor as Strom Thurmond in a thong bikini. Yet, to my great chagrin, I continue to find myself plodding around under the disco ball like a giant Weeble that wobbles but never falls down. I flap around the floor, mashing toes, bruising ribs, leaving a trail of carnage and mumbled apologies.
“Oh, excuse me.”
“I’m sorry. Was that your foot?”
“Oops. That will probably wash out.”
“Oh geez. Let me buy you another one.”
“Ooh, sorry. Tilt your head back until the bleeding stops.”
As my wife glides about with her eyes closed and a peaceful smile on her lips, she is completely unaware that, as she blissfully twirls and pirouettes across the floor, an angry lynch mob is forming to drive her husband right the hell out of Dodge. Later, in the car, she will tilt the seat back just a hair, snuggle down into her jacket, and sigh, “That was wonderful.” I will look over as much as my neck brace allows and smile.
I will never like dancing, and I will never like the fact that my wife likes dancing. She has repeatedly brought up the notion of dance lessons, convinced that after a few rounds at Arthur Murray I will be a regular “Grease”-era John Travolta – a guy who’s singing, dancing, and flashing his jazz hands, but still able to get away with wearing a leather jacket. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I could be the Al Jolson of the 21st century, minus the blackface. But I really H-A-T-E dancing. I hate it with a fiery passion. Which is why I am now asking myself, “Dumbass, how did you get talked into signing up for dance lessons?” Because I love my wife. Because it’s almost Valentine’s Day. Because just when I think that my wife and I couldn’t be a more mismatched pair, she fixes everything by uttering the seven sweet words that melt my heart like butter: “Let’s go out for wings and beer.”
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