The adage “parehong kaliwa ang paa” used to refer to people who cannot dance is inapplicable for my case. No, I don’t shake a booty- it’s because I CAWNT dance at all. (Note that it’s CAWNT, the British way).
Dancing is an art of expression- that’s no question. My forms of expression though- the artiste way- are unfortunately not through grooving on the stage spewing pulses of kinetic energy to the cheering crowds (and JJs). I draw. I write.
I sing [?]. These are seemingly effortless. It has become a prophecy however that dancing is not for me. Again, unfortunately.
Why I don’t dance:
( it’s awkward )
( it’s dictated by experience )
( it’s not exciting )
Explications on such incapacity are already laid on the table. First, my physiological advantage acts adversely to the nurturing of dancing skills. When I swing my arms, jig my legs and move my muscles, I would look like a helicopter propeller. If I were in a pub, the people cramped around me on the dance floor would likely be swatted away! Lol. I’d be like Brooke White performing “Here Comes the Sun.”
From sheer experience, I have decided that dancing would be out from my vocabulary. Perhaps, my grade school years were the first to fire the signal- I never joined the cheerdance competitions even if a lot of my friends did. I was just one of the squad members who have to wail despicable alliterations a.k.a. cheering songs for the cheer leaders. And alas, in high school I was asked to join. I gave it a shot even if I knew that I suck. Eventually, my primary task together with the other boys from freshman to senior year was to yes, be the base of human pyramids. That is, the girls are to stand on our shoulders. Lol.
Okay, if awkwardness and experience do not apply as vamped excuses, at least I still tried. The peak of my dancing prowess (if you call it) was during the proms. With the glaring ballads, irritating suits, collapsing knees and taciturn ladies, dancing on balls could only do so much. And maybe, the only things that mattered to me then were my first dance, my last dance, my friends, the food and the barkada sleep-overs afterwards.
And now, my dancing wick has obviously flared out. There are no second chances for me. And it’s final. If I were to dance again, the instance could be that I got drunk which has never been the case. Lol.