D. warned me he’s a terrible dancer. But I happen to love terrible dancers. I find them incredibly endearing and cute, plus they’re the most entertaining to watch on the dancefloor. Having grown up taking dance lessons, to me, every pose and posture is taken into serious account. Sometimes I care too much that I sacrifice fully enjoying myself at the mercy of appearing to be a prima ballerina in the eyes of others. If only I could dangle my arms like a monkey, knowing that’s the best I could do, it would be so liberating. I’d become that ridiculous-looking person having a carefree time all the while amusing others at my own free-spirited expense. I wouldn’t mind being called “monkey girl” for a night. But others aren’t so inclined to let their simian side shine.

“Let’s go dancing!” I suggested to who D. blatantly replied, “No way.” “Why not?” I whined. “It’ll be so fun!” “No f’ing way” he protested. “Nobody dances in clubs anymore…” he rolled his eyes. This is quite true, I had to admit. Ever since my raver days ended well over a decade ago, I don’t really see all that many people let loose in any of the more cordial, upscale club venues. In dingy dive bars, sure everyone still head-bangs to the latest beats. But now that I’ve grown up and fine-tuned my tastes for better things, there’s nothing more tawdry than a drunken ditz dribbling her Cosmopolitan all over the place, soiling other patrons’ stiffly-priced Barneys’ britches. So I’ve learned to retain a certain poise, one that involves head-nodding in conjunction to the music I’m appreciating as a backdrop to an event that’s more about socializing versus getting full-on schnockered.

“I’ll go dancing with you on one condition: you don’t force me to dance when I get there,” D. bargained. “Fine with me,” I accepted his provision.

Two cocktails down for me and two Glenlivet-on-the-rocks later for him, I’m ready to bust out of my conservative stance and show the dancefloor what I’m truly made of. I start off with small steps accompanied by my signature head-nod, nothing too crazy. I’m being more reserved than usual which is a direct result of hanging out with a certain stiff someone who doesn’t like dancing altogether. In my mind, I hope he realizes how much effort I’ve been putting in thus far at conducting myself more modestly. But when I glance over at D., I’m suddenly disturbed at what seems like the opposite of appreciation and recognition of my efforts. I see a condescending, cold stare. I have to remind myself, he’s an uptight guy. He’s not into dancing. He’s an anti-dancer. I decide it’s just the way it is and continue doing my thing, paying no mind to my objector.

The next song is Lady Gaga and although I can hardly tolerate her music when I’m sober, after a few drinks and hearing her full blast in a crowd full of people cheering and singing along to “Bad Romance”, I’m all in it. (You tell me harmonizing with “Rah-Rah-Rah-Rah-Rah! isn’t contagious). I throw my arms up and dance sexy like Gaga would, sauntering up to D, brushing up against him. He inches away and adjusts his collar. “Ahem, uhh, I don’t dance, remember?” he reminds me. “I knowwwww!” I said. “You don’t have to dance!” I tease him while dancing circles around him. “What?! I can’t hear you!” he yells in a raised voice, over the loud music.

At this point, I know for certain D. is definitely not the one for me. He’s a total buzz kill. And not because I’m looking for a guy who can dance or anything but for someone to be so intolerant and detest it so much, to me, that’s intolerable. 

A few songs later, D. taps me on the shoulder. “You ready to leave yet?” Truthfully, I’d had a long week and was ready to go – but not with him. “Nah, I think I’m gonna stay,” I tell him. “Okay…” he says, seemingly uncomfortable. “I hope you had a good time!” he yells over the music. And I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not so I said, “Yeah I did, but not because of you…” It was only then I realized I actually said this loud enough for him to hear. “Excuse me?” D. asked. “What did you just say to me?” I knew he’d heard exactly what I said and was only asking me to repeat it to make sure I was actually that rude of a person. And so I owned up to it. “Look, I’m sorry. No offense. But you’ve been giving me cut-eye all evening,” I told him. “So no. I didn’t really have a great time with you… We’re incompatible.” I shrugged, semi-smiled and headed back toward the dance floor but D. reeled me in by my shirt sleeve.

Fully enraged, he retorted, “What cut eye? I didn’t give you any cut-eye! You’re just mad because I’m not a dancer! And I told you I don’t dance!” He was really letting me have it in the club, in public.

“Let’s not make a big scene here,” I tried to reason with him. “Why don’t you go home and I’ll stay and we’ll call a spade a spade. Alright?” But there was no reasoning with D. He was incensed.

“I told you that I don’t like dancing! And this is what I get?” he yelled. Trying to diffuse the eyes on us, I smiled at our onlookers and told D., “It’s okay, honey!” I patted him playfully on the shoulder. “Go home!”

As if we were in a long-term committed relationship and he had suddenly become an abusive, possessive, freakish boyfriend, he grabbed my arm and persisted to antagonize me. “I just wanna know. What did you expect when I told you I wouldn’t dance at the club with you? Huh? Huh?” Shocked, I took a few seconds to digest the fact that he had a really firm grip on my arm. “What’s your problem, buddy? Let me go!” I struggled to wriggle free but he was unrelenting.

Looking around frantic, in search of security, he continued berating me. While I’m typically a ballsy person who can handle herself in the worst case scenarios, this guy’s behavior was really frightening me at this point. And then, as if the cosmos were instinctively on my side at that precise millisecond, a seriously drunk girl happened to pass by us, dancing with her Cosmo fluttering in the air. Then, in the most magical way possible, she tripped on her heels propelling her drink to soar high in the air only to end up splashing D. right in the face. D’s reaction involved a head-shake, full body twist and knee-jerk. And I just stood there and laughed so hard, not because D. got a drink splattered in the face but because watching him wave his arms and move his body around like that was the best demonstration of dancing I saw him do all night.

Photo credit: Piano Bar, New York