Nothing left for me to do but dance...

I love to dance. I friggin love it. Dancing feels me with a certain sense of euphoria I haven't experienced doing anything else. Thrashing myself around and singing my heart out, a little sweaty, only slightly injured from the speed of my chandelier earrings slapping me in the face. Bliss.

There is only one problem. I'm not a good dancer. One friend told me I looked like Jack Skellington from The Nightmare before Christmas when I dance. It brought new meaning to the term 'throwing angry shapes', and apparently ran the risk of ruining her wedding reception photos. I've personally always thought Jack was pretty graceful, but maybe that's where I'm going wrong. He is, after all, all limbs. If you've been unfortunate enough to get in the path of my windmill arms, you might be inclined to agree with my friend.

So where does that leave me? I could save my dancing for the privacy of my own home, curtains drawn, intermittently checking the drive way for visitors. I could suppress the desire and channel my energies elsewhere, like macrame or pigeon racing. I could just go to Zumba and pretend I only like to dance because it burns 500 calories an hour.

I could, but I'm not going to. Because it doesn't really matter if I look a Gibbon, high on paint fumes, set loose on the dance floor. I'm a chronic over achiever and even I can put my lack of skills aside and just admit I'm doing it cos I love it.

So you can imagine my delight this Saturday on the rather sticky dance floor of my favourite pub, when at least one person thought I was the Ginger to his Fred. Fred in this case was a 6 foot 4, overweight farmer from WA wearing a check shirt that failed to cover his protruding belly.

When a sweet, slightly awkward pharmacist sidled up to me while I was busting a move to 99 Problems, Fred felt the need to pipe up.
'You don't deserve to dance with her,' he said, towering over the little ginger. 'Look at her, she's amazing. You're just standing there shuffling.' He then proceeded to give him the evil eye, while ginger threw in some arms for good measure. 'That's not dancing, SHE IS dancing.'

Damn straight I was. It wasn't graceful and moving like a scene from Swan Lake, but it did move a Giant Farmer to speak up.

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