Answering for the Lack of Rhythm,

Witty retorts aside, you’re right, I can’t dance. I don’t lack desire, I don’t lack feet, one left and one right over there, I don’t lack for much but a beat slow enough to work with...which doesn’t make for good dancing. Yes, I know. In my head, I am smooth, gliding across the floor like silky Astaire before he got old and died. In my head, I feel the music in my soul, thumping out my angst like hedgehogs at a carnival. Then again, in my head, I am much taller and my teeth much whiter. I can’t escape middle school formals, when I still thought I could dance, just didn’t want to. Sitting in my memory in a pod of prepubescent men, forming my views on this whole dancing thing, I still haven’t found the right girl with which to dance. Maybe my wife can help me find her. The sad part is, I just found out. Nobody told me, not with furtive glances or screaming stares, “STOP DANCING, YOU TWIT”. Nothing. I found out in the midst of the middle aged, thinking myself better, only to find out that it is I who has no rhythm. So, you’re right, I can’t dance, but I can whistle. So there.