“We need to practice her dancing.”
This is what my wife said to me this morning after Pea finished her dance class. She goes once a week to prance, gallop, macarena and chicken her way around the dance floor and we haven’t been doing all that great a job in helping her learn her steps.
Well, here’s the truth. I want to help, but I fear my help will set her back light years and have other the other kids laughing at her.
Here’s what I bring to the table:
- I do my best dancing when drunk, and yet, there isn’t enough alcohol in the world to prevent me from making an ass of myself once the bass starts thumping.
- I can do a really good “Rave Glow Stick” routine, but I have never been to a rave so I have no idea if my prowess is accurate.
- My ancestors learned to dance while a bearded logger played the spoons in a sugar bush… these conditions rarely present themselves in present-day Canada.
- I had to dance to The Chicken Dance in elementary school… to us frenchies, it was called La Danse des Canards and when I hear that accordion start playing a little part of my psyche curls up and crawls into the fetal position in the deep, dark recesses of my mind.
- My best moves are inspired by Molly Ringwald’s moves in The Breakfast Club; that said, there has been no song written since that movie was released in 1985 that actually calls for these moves.
- The Macarena actually makes me throw-up a little in my mouth.
So yeah, I’ll leave the instruction to The Wiggles, and my wife’s Latin American heritage.