Now that I’ve busted a move do you think we can have sex before I bust a hip?

December 18, 2009

My daughter accused me of stepping on her feet during the traditional father-of-the-bride dance at her wedding. I don’t remember doing that but I may not have noticed, so busy was I praying that the song would end soon, allowing me to retreat into the shadows so people would stop staring at me. And snickering.

But if I did flatten a few of my darling daughter’s tootsies, it’s not my fault. According to a story by the Telegraph Group Ltd (published in the Dec. 17 issue of the New Zealand Herald), “dad dancing” is a direct result of evolution.

Nature’s grand design, according to the story, is that the older we get, the worse our dancing becomes, thus sending a message to younger members of the opposite sex that basically says, “Stay away, I’m not fertile.”

Women, the story says, “gauge the testosterone levels of their dance partners by the style and energy of their moves.”

In other words, bad dancing = withered, decrepit sperm = “Back away from the ovaries, old-timer.”

Thank goodness for vital scientific research. For a minute there, I thought it was simply the ravages of gravity and the passing decades and too many lemon cranberry scones from Starbucks that were responsible for the fact that the only females paying attention to me these days are the ladies living in the residential care facility where I work. And they only like me because I know in which drawer they like to store their clean knickers.

Let me get this straight — I’m not old, I’m just past my Boogaloo’s best-by date? Whew!

Actually, I’ve never been much of a dancer. Oh, I can waltz — one-two, one-two — but my repertoire is pretty much limited to what I like to call the White Man’s Funky Chicken. It ain’t pretty, but no one gets hurt. And you can use the same moves for every single song ever invented. I know, I’ve done it.

If the mood strikes me, and I’ve chugged back a few too many Diet Cokes, I’ve also been known to demonstrate my version of the duck walk. Chuck Berry does it while playing the guitar. I don’t have an ax to grind, but I can do it backwards. Take that, Mr. Berry!

Oh, and I do have one move from Thriller, although Viking Woman has asked me never to do it again, lest Michael Jackson roll over in his grave and break something. I think I look like a dancing zombie. She says I look like a bear trying to crawl out of an open latrine.

Brother #2 has a move I’ve always envied. It ends with him sliding across the floor on his knees. Which looks absolutely stunning. Unless, of course, someone gets in the way, and then it just looks like human bowling.

I did try line dancing once, back in the days when Viking Woman and I were in the dating stage of our relationship. You know those times — when the guy will do practically anything to get some lovin‘, including cuddling and watching Meg Ryan movies.

Anyway, a group of us from work met at a country and western club and joined the line. I stood deep in the back so as not to get in anyone’s way. It didn’t work. I turned left when I should have gone right and ended up with the toe of someone’s cowboy boot jammed into my prostate. Which pretty much ended my line-dancing days. And ruined a perfectly good pair of boots.

The good news is, I won’t need an exam now for another 10 years.

It’s really too bad about my lack of rhythm and coordination. Because I was there when all those wild dances were invented: The Twist. The Frug. The Mashed Potato. The Watusi. The Swim. The Freddie.

They’re all gone now. Dead and buried. Distant memories. Something like my chances of ever  hooking up with a younger member of the opposite sex.

And that’s a real shame because I’ve still got a few moves left.

Here, check this ou . . .  owww!

Listen, could I bother you to put the wheat bag in the microwave for me? Two minutes on high and I should be good.


One Response to “Now that I’ve busted a move do you think we can have sex before I bust a hip?”

  1. Many thanks! I’m more of a Lindy man myself but I enjoyed that immensely.

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