When my wife I announced that we were going to a party and said the name of the group, I was not hugely enthusiastic. In fact, Grumpy Old Man took over big time. The last time I’d heard the group, we were all standing around in a grassy field listening, and, in my case, fidgeting and wishing I was somewhere else. My normal regime of music is classical to listen to and folk music to play on my various instruments. This band met neither of these requirements.
However, I tagged along and promised to try to smile. In fact, I even stopped my wife just outside the hall, where the party was taking place, to practice smiling and to check that my wife could see that I was practicing smiling. (Hey! Little things please grumpy old men’s little minds! I mean, I was there wasn’t I? I’d made an effort.)
I had even resolved, although I hadn’t told my wife, to try my hand at dancing. This may seem a particularly unspectacular idea but, without even a sniff of a party or other occasion to indulge in this ancient form of exercise, for many years, to put it mildly, I was out of practice. My confidence was shot. It was going to take a lot of courage to step out onto the dance floor and wiggle my middle-aged body about.
I was even fairly uncertain whether a middle-aged, rather balding if the truth be known, man should even wiggle his body about at all. Perhaps there’s a law against it. Perhaps I will look completely ridiculous. Surely the various stages of decrepitude that being middle aged brings should also bring freedom from prancing about and making oneself look ridiculous.
However, when I was young, like 30 years ago, I reckoned I had a few twists and turns that marked me out from the rest and I promised myself to throw caution to the winds and give these an outing!
So, after we had made our introductions, and chatted to a few people, to show willing, as soon as the band struck up, I grabbed my surprised wife’s hand and launched us onto the dance floor. I even ignored her protest that it wasn’t a favourite tune for her to dance to. I was determined to dance as instructed. Nothing would stop me. Thinking Man was gone and now replaced by Action Man with his vast array of twiddles, twists and turns. After all, I had spent many hours on the tennis courts, honing my body to superb fitness (O.K. So I exaggerate, sometimes!) My wife wanted to do modern dancing, so we would dance, and I wasn’t going to be the one aching afterwards, since the most active thing she ever does is housework.
We danced all night and all my twiddles and twirls were fully exploited. I even probably invented a few new ones. The wife seemed to be rather concerned about my pogo dancing bit and even had the nerve to inquire when I had ever been a punk rocker. Some people just don’t appreciate true balletic art!
Although I hate to admit it, the dancing was fun and I got huge amounts of exercise so at least it had some practical benefit. The band that I didn’t enjoy listening to was great to dance to and I enjoyed watching the saxophone players, as I jigged about, being a sometime saxophone player myself. So that night was a great success. I enjoyed myself and so did my wife.
Oh, and one more thing. I really ached the next day from all the exercise … and she didn’t!
Bye for now
Rob
Rob Hopcott – online author and aspiring ex punk rock dancer
