A little more than a year ago, we went as a family to my son’s graduation party, something that seems so odd today as we are stuck at home in quarantine. I remember how we ate empanadas, pizzas and potato chips, how the diplomas for finishing elementary school were handed out, followed by applause and photos. And then everybody’s attention shifted to the dance floor.
I stood back.
I’ve always liked to dance, but this was a no-alcohol affair, and that made it hard to ease into things.
My son got into it, though. The Village People’s “Y.M.C.A.” came on and his teacher asked him to dance, and soon enough he was putting on the moves, with his long hair flying around like a Jim Morrison or something.
“Y… M… C… A…”
He hit each and every move.
This loosened things up, maybe for all of us at the party.
A conga formed, and soon enough I was pulled into the dance train behind a mother, and round we went, forwards, then backwards. I started getting into it, loosening up. I threw my arms around and shook my hips, my booty. I smiled broadly. Laughed. And let out a hoot of sorts.
That’s when I felt somebody tugging at my hand. I looked down. It was my youngest daughter. She pulled me out of the conga and off the dance floor, and she didn’t stop pulling me until we were in another room. Near the front door. Almost outside.
When we’d stopped, I caught my breath and, still smiling, looked at the 10-year-old. I was about to ask why she’d done that, but her stern face said it all.
She told me to stay put, cool off, wait here, have a drink, unwind, catch my breath.
I did.
Then I slowly made my way back to the dance floor and stood on the sidelines to watch my son, my arms crossed. He had sway, swagger, timing. I looked at him with appreciation and thought that maybe my kids are right. All I have is the ability to embarrass them — and myself — on the dance floor, and then write a funny story about it. And so after my failed attempt at a doing a jig, I decided to stick with writing, which is what the kids told me I am better at, followed by a warning that if I dare dance again, it must not be the same city and nobody must film it. I had to swear to abide, cross my heart and all that stuff.
