Friday, July 6, 2012

Breezy has no rhythm.

It is a stunning admission, but yes - an admission none the less:  Breezy has no rhythm.  With even the most primal of hip hopping beats, this girl can't seem to swing her big bootie in sync.  It's simply mortifying.  What makes this situation even more embarrassing is that I've married a white guy who loves music as much as I do and is just as bad  - if not worse - at the process as I am.  Good Lord, put us on a dance floor at a wedding reception and it's as if the entire event stops to stare at the spectacle that is Mr. and Mrs. Eric Potts.  Oh the shame!

I even recall as a child that this was a horrible challenge for me.  My mother attempted every scheme to teach her little girl how to move her tookus.  She enrolled my older sister, Kathleen, and I in a Jazz and Tap class at the local park.  With every beat of, Bad Bad Leroy Brown, I in my tie-dye leotards and little tap shoes, attempted the shuffle ball change steps until I thought the dance move would magically roll off my feet.  It never occurred.  I would ride my bike home in shame twice a week and consider the irony.  Why couldn't I manage the steps after hours of practicing while my sister, with little or no practice, was becoming the next Ginger Rogers of my Southern California suburb?  I was devastated.

In high school, I signed up for a dance elective hoping against hope to avoid the more stressful typing class.  I sat in the back of the gymnasium on my mat with a few selective overweight friends and did my best to keep up.

"Bri Bryant, I see you back there.  Move those legs."

"Yes, Miss Murujo.  I'm trying."

She grinned (she was always grinning at me).  "Come on Bri, I know you can do it!"

"Yeah, but do my legs know it?"

I didn't last long.  Miss Murujo was very sweet and eventually let me off the hook; however, I didn't fare well in typing either.  I've never done well with timed tests.  Needless to say, to this day, I'm a henpecker.

Fast forward:  How many weddings was I in before my own?  Countless.  And how many of these weddings was I paired up with Eric as a groomsman?  Oh my goodness, too many.  Eric and I had the same friends in high school so therefore we attended many of the same ceremonies.  This only means one thing; we danced together at these weddings.  Eric spun me, threw me across the dance floor, and actually broke my high-heeled shoes on several different occasions.  Yes, that's correct; he actually broke my shoes.  I'm surprised he didn't break my ankles.

Today - we're married.  We're still geeks.  We still can't dance.  When we make a concerted effort to look "Rico Suave" (my dorky term for, "sophisticated"), we end up looking like jack asses.  I try to stand as still as possible and bend my knees towards the beat and Eric does a gyrating hip thrust towards me which looks like he's ready to penetrate me on the dance floor.  Es no bueno (Spanish for, "no good").  What's also disconcerting is that he tends to bite his lips making him appear like Chester the Molester.  Uggh!  Our dancing looks like bad 80's foreplay.

One would think that after close to 30 years, Eric and I would finally figure it out.  I guess not.  If dancing is the hardest thing we can manage as a couple, or individually for that matter, I'll take it.  There's a lot worse things out in the world to be terrible at like golf for instance.  No one wants to play a bad game of miniature golf.  Now that's just friggin' embarrassing!