Nov 25, 2009

I don’t sing. I don’t dance.

I don’t sing. I don’t dance.

I don’t sing. I don’t dance.

I don’t sing. I don’t dance.

Last night, I was invited to go to a wedding by a FRIEND of mine. I immediately agreed, but under three stipulations. #1: I don’t sing. #2: I don’t dance. #3: Find me an angel investor and someone that owns a meat shop that can combine forces and potentially get my beef jerky business off the ground. She complied.

In general, I’m a pretty confident guy. I have been through a few situations that put this confidence to the test, such as the time a thug put a gun to my head and threatened to pull the trigger in the middle of a party I was throwing. Naturally, I defused the situation with my boyish good looks and sparkling wit, but nonetheless, I kept my cool. Another time, I saved a girl from drowning at the YMCA during a pool party for my baseball team when I was maybe 11 or 12 years old. Again, death was in the air, and I saved the day. (Both true stories).

Every superhero has their Kryptonite. Mine happens to be singing and dancing. I don’t like to sing. I don’t like to dance. To put this into perspective, imagine that you are standing in a room with a hula hoop around you. The hula hoop forms a protective bubble around you that shields you from all of the things in the outside world that might bring you harm or make u feel uncomfortable. Now imagine something that would make you a little nervous. The hula hoop shrinks a little bit. It is still there, but the bubble around you isn’t as big as it used to be. Now think about something that would really stress you out-something that would really scare the shit of you. Since a lot of folks would rather die than stand up in front of a group of people and give a speech, I’ll use this as a perfect example. Let’s say you were condemned with having to give a speech, and this is your worst nightmare. That hula hoop that you were wearing just turned into a belt, pulled a couple notches deep, snug around your waist. In the anticipation of giving the speech, and realizing this fear, the hula hoop belt gradually gets tighter, notch-by-notch. When you get up to deliver the speech finally, the belt is pulled as far as it can go, to the last notch. It’s hard to breath. There is no bubble to protect you. You are way out of your comfort zone. Sweat begins to drip down your face. The world caves in. Everything isn’t as it seemed to be. You start to panic. You want to run out of the room, displacing the consequences of your evacuation.

The same example can be applied to what goes through my mind when someone asks me to dance. This feeling has been an on-going thorn in my side that was developed early on, going way back to the dances that were held in my grade school. You know, the ones where the girls stood on one side of the gym and the boys stood on the other. Well while that was all going on, I was in the cafeteria by the punch bowl, wandering aimlessly outside or in the bathroom, or doing anything I could to keep my hula hoop from turning into a boa constrictor that wanted to suck that last dying breath out of my lungs.

I don’t really have an explanation for it. I just can’t handle being put into a situation where I am asked to dance. The dance strategies I had in grade school went right along with me to high school. As a football player, I was required to go to the Homecoming dance. High school pretty much required me to go to every other dance that was being held, including [puke in my mouth] prom. The whole idea of doing something I absolutely didn’t want to do along with something I perceived to be a “stupid, waste of time and money” really didn’t add up to a successful event in my mind. The thought of having to be put in a situation where I would be asked to dance was obviously the worst idea ever imaginable. The acts that led up to this, such as getting a tux, or dress clothes for that matter, picking up the girl, meeting her parents, doing the whole pin the flower on the coat shenanigans, driving to the dance and explaining why I’m pale and sweating buckets, and the post-dance explanation of coming up with a story about why I suddenly vanished for 3 hours, are not what I would really describe as having a good time.

Some people like to dance. Some people will dance all night, and party until their brains fall out. That’s cool with me. If the lights dim, and “Footloose” kicks in full blast, go ahead and dance, dance dance dance dance dance. That’s not me though. I don’t like to dance.

To this day, I still find myself getting put into situations where I am required, or at least expected to dance. The invitation to the wedding next summer is no exception. I’m not going to do it, no way. Put a gun to my head. Let me go save the drowning girl. I’ll put a clown suit on and tell jokes all night. I’ll bend over and shine your shoes, and everyone’s shoes. But I’m not going to dance. My ultimate nightmare would be participating in a dance at my wedding, if I were to ever get married. That thought of having to dance, especially in front of everyone I know, is mind boggling. Is it possible to just skip the dancing part? What if I planned the whole wedding? Shit, I’ll even play “Canon in D” on the pipe organ, on a violin, or even on the bagpipes while everyone is waiting for the bride to come out, and I wouldn’t think twice about it. Can I please just not have to dance?

At any note, this was all just a bunch of rambling before I kicked off another segment of “It’s Motherfuckin’ Hump Day, 224 Kiefaber Blast From The Past” Wednesday blog.

Continuing with the theme of dancing, one of my fondest memories of college was the bittersweet feeling of pure joy and disgrace that the Stripper Pole in our living room brought to all of our hearts on a daily basis. There was quite a bit of planning and construction that went into making this beast of beasts a living reality, and I am a true believer that it paid the price for its short lived lifespan.

During one of the summer weekends, UD held it’s Alumni weekend. Since our house was in prime UD Ghetto-we’re close to all the bars-we’re the only people living on campus during the summer-we like to party-we are the best thing that ever happened and will ever happen to you-locations, needless to say, there were quite a few alumnus that trolled through our humble abode, which just so happened to feature a Stripper Pole. First and foremost, I am not a fan of strippers. I’ll just get that out right now. They don’t have souls, and I don’t enjoy going to strip clubs, even though I’ve been to many, in multiple countries. But one thing I happen to enjoy is watching older ladies, professional ladies, the kind of ladies that would potentially be my boss, or hold some high ranking position that would put all their creditability to risk if someone was to write about their debauchery in a blog years later, and may have just so happened to posted a picture of them doing so in said blog. Either way, this stripper pole made them go nuts. And boy, did they love to dance.

A mental image that is burned in my mind would be that of staring at a half-dozen 40-something year old women try to do something on this stripper pole for a minute, then realizing that I need another drink, only to walk to the kitchen to see a 40 to 50-something year old man and woman embracing each other in the back of my kitchen, and watching as the dude slowly slid his hand up the back of her shirt and unbutton her bra with one hand. Ummm. Yeah. [Flash forward 2 hours, and this same duo pounded on my bedroom door and begged me for a condom, so I reached into Mr. Cheek’s desk drawer and pitched them one of his Trojan Magnums. The dude and the “chick” both gave me the same startled, confused, bewildered, embarrassed look, in which I replied, “Hey baby, it’s for the girth, not the length.” The guy seemed to get that, and they went on their merry way.] Back to the kitchen, I get my drink, and continue to watch the freak show unfold before my eyes for the rest of the night, and then I go up to bed, momentarily get interrupted, and slip into a mild coma. The next morning, I sat on the couch and stared at the aftermath that was UD Alumni Weekend/Stripper fest. Then I went to Subway. Then I came back home, and sat on the couch. While I was biting into my cold cut trio, I heard a knock on what was left of my front door. Well kiss my ass; it is one of the dames from last night. Wearing the same clothes as the night before, at that. She came up to me and thanked me for the good time she had the night before, and then proceeded to give me her business card. Then she smiled, and faded into the distance. I’ve never dropped a foot long sub before, but I dropped the one I was holding that day, I can assure you. Her business card detailed her name, and then said “VP, Financial Company XYZ, I’m pretty much a big shot in the professional world, but I just made a fool out of myself on your stripper pole last night. Hugs and kisses, Dumbass. P.S. Let’s hope that Trojan Magnum you gave the random old man holds up.”