Dance, Dance, Dance...

“Every rose has its thorn. Yeah it does.” I was reminded of this phrase last Sunday night as I was swimming with friends in my pool. As this particular ballad started playing, I was instantly transported back in time to a particular high school stomp (dance) where I fondly remember dancing with Dana Whittle and softly singing along to the words playing over the speakers in the gym.

Although I had no talent in signing, I made up for it in a lack of timing and pitch. I truly had the trifecta working for me that night, but it did not matter. Nothing was going to dampen my enthusiasm. It was 1989, I was in high school and my feet were sliding all over the floor from the sawdust they put down to protect the basketball court. Life felt good. I felt alive. I was dancing. I was in heaven.

At that point in life, I knew every rose had a thorn. It made so much sense. I also knew how to walk like an Egyptian and do the Humpty Dance.

Fast forward to 2008. I still love music and I still love to dance. However, if I want to hear that same sweet music played over speakers, I drive down to the New York New York to the dueling pianos. Here, two professionals play the best music from the 80s and 90s for the highest bidder. They, unlike me, have rhythm style and grace and get paid to sing on a nightly basis. They are professionals. Not wanting to compete with them, I have long stopped singing in the ears of others and because people always told me to stop. Which is rude, rude, rude.

But dancing. Dancing is another story all together. Dancing is something that can’t be cured. I have the disease and there is not antidote. Although, if you would like to donate to a cure, simply send me a check for no less than $20 and I will begin the appropriate research.

One night, in particular, as I sat and listened to the show, I heard a familiar tune. It was a sound from the past and before my mind could process the information, my body began moving to the beat. I started to move, then shake, which led to dancing. Full on dancing. I felt it. Everyone felt it. People began to cheer, not loudly at first, but it soon turned into a palpable energetic rhythm that could not be controlled.

As “Play that funky music white boy,” boomed from the piano, I did what any true dance junky would have done. I started moving and shaking and something to the rhythm, and just when it hit me, I screamed, play that funky music white boy, ahhooooooo.

Yes, my dance moves had whipped the place into hysterics. And while all good things generally come to an end, this was no exception. But being the ultimate performer, just as the song was concluding, I decided to take it to another level, which left me somewhere in mid-air contemplating, why I was trying to do the splits (maybe it is the yoga) at 35, when I had not been able to do them at 25, 15 or even 5.

My brain seemed to understand the pain I would be in, but my body did not seem to care, that is until I hit the ground somewhere between grace and goofiness. But not being one to stop a show, I sprang to my feet with my fist in the air, waving it like I just did not care. But in actuality, I cared. I cared a lot. I was hurting, with a capital H. So, after three or fours waves to the crowd; I ran out the front of the establishment and headed for home. The good news, I can still walk. The bad news, I have a slight limp.

The night was not a total failure. When I went home, I made each of my kids make me a trophy which crowned me, Funkiest White Boy, New York New York. It’s not much, but it is something that I have on my resume.

And while many of you would try to eradicate the rhythm from my soul, it just does seem to be possible. Monday, as I was driving home from Mesquite, that same iPod that started it all was blaring my favorite songs from today, when I looked in the rear view mirror in horror as I watched Boston, sitting in the back of the car, movin’ and groovin’ to the music.

So what am I to do, it’s hereditary. I guess it is a disease and I am just going to have to live with.

PS – Make the checks out to the Matthew Brimhall fund for eradicating embarrassing behavior that shames his family, wife and those within view of his moves.

Hurry, only you can prevent uncontrolled dance moves.