If I had a dime for every time someone called me “fat” as a kid, I’d have enough money to drown my sorrows in Pepsi for a day or two. I only remember it happening a few times; but I remember it. The sad thing is, I found a picture of me from first grade a while back, and I was a skinny little dude. Whoever called me fat that first time was clearly an idiot or had terrible vision. In either event, I can look back now and not care so much. I hope he got his glasses from a pleasantly bariatric optician.
On the whole, I didn’t let those things affect me. In hindsight, the only reason they didn’t affect me was because I had been so affected by it that I resolved to not let them win. I was really good at it. Except for dancing.
We didn’t dance a lot in my house growing up, but not because it was forbidden. Mom and Dad used to dance in the living room together once in a blue moon when Dad was feeling particularly sweet and disgusting and would put on some song. (Probably John Denver. Or Chicago.) James used to feign nausea, and Jonathan hadn’t arrived yet, but I always thought they were sweet. I think I might have danced with her once or twice, but as I said, it was generally a rare event.
I have almost always hated dancing. I may have fantastic rhythm and feel suave and debonair like Antonio Banderas on the inside, but the outside is like the hippo from Fantasia, and no-one wants to see this in a tutu. Seriously. Just no. I dance alone in my kitchen listening to jazz and doing the dishes, and occasionally while cleaning the house. Alone. I live alone, which facilitates this.
I danced at my brother’s wedding and busted a move. It was kind of a one-off. I danced once at work with the kids for Halloween, and was shut down pretty much immediately.
Then the World Race came along and ruined the ride.
I danced in Peru, where I invented the “paint drop” (shush, I invented it) while working in my team, making sure no one saw but Talia. She was appropriately shocked, to my delight.
We had a dance off during our first debrief in Ecuador. It was pretty excruciating. I mostly just wanted to die, but did it anyway because life isn’t about me. Talia was our choreographer; she’s one of the “come alive” people.
In Colombia, during Semana Santa, I was wrangled into dancing with people from the church. I hid, but they caught me eventually. It was awful at the start, but then I started to enjoy myself. A little.
In Greece, I cooked in the kitchen one day. I danced a wee bit. Just a bit. There were only a couple of people around, and they were all introverts, so they’d keep their opinions to themselves, at least. We were going to do another dance off, but thank God, it was cancelled. Oh, but there was the dance party at debrief in Macedonia. Which was awesome. (Our team one the lip-sync battle. I danced the socks off Maggie to “Since You Been Gone.”). It was awkward to have everyone looking at me, but it was kinda great because I got to clothesline someone and call it dancing.
In Montenegro, I grooved in the kitchen a bit. Not gonna lie. It was fun. We had a good time. My team is awesome, by the way. Heather does a mean West Coast Swing.
And that brings us to Albania. And lemme tell ya, these guys know how to dance. I was expecting the run-around-in-a-circle-dancing from My Big Fat Greek Wedding in Greece, but apparently they exported it, because that is what we did last night for 3 hours. Lightly sprinkled with freestyle.
It was glorious. I loved it. Everyone from the 2 year old to the lady old enough to be my mother joined in. They did traditional dances and then broke it up with everything from The Blues Brothers to The Beatles. It was joyous. It was wholesome. It was liberating. It was fun.
As I danced with my friends, I realized that all these years I’ve missed the point. For so long, I looked at dancing as this thing that was either significant as a form of cultural expression or just a rhythmic lead-up to further shenanigans. It can be those things, but last night, it clicked in my brain. I got it wrong.
Dancing is a way to connect with the people around us and share life together.
Everyone danced. Everyone. Some were technically better than others, but everyone was welcome, and everyone enjoyed themselves. Some were coaxed, but none were forced. Not a single person cared about how anyone else looked, because we were too busy having fun, enjoying each other’s company, learning new dances. (Yeah, I can sort-of do “Cotton-Eye Joe” now. That’s a thing.)
In some circles, dancing seems to be frowned upon. I think that’s a shame. In the right context, dancing can be a wonderful way to express the love, joy and unity of the body of Christ. I know this because I experienced it.
Some (read ‘most’) days I still feel like the hippo, which I’m learning is not the case.
You’d best believe I’m gonna rock that tutu from now on.
