I love to (pretend I want to) go dancing.

seinfeld, elaine, dancingGeorge: “It’s more like a full-body dry heave set to music” (Seinfeld)

I wish I could dance like a white girl because that would be an improvement. I can’t even look as good as Elaine did on Seinfeld. I once made a drunk gay man cry when in my late twenties I told him I haven’t danced in public in well over a decade. He was just so sad for me. But I told him I don’t dance so no one can complain that I’m musty, so there’s that at least, I blamed good hygiene.

I mean, I will go on the dance floor, but only to get to the bathroom.

Enough with the new-fangled dances too. If you’ve twerked, popped, locked or dougied, we’re probably never going to be friends. And enough booty poppin already! I don’t have a clue what ‘Gangham Style’ is and I won’t for at least a few more years because 80-year-olds are more trendy than I am.

I would probably strip since I’m over my daddy issues and would like to pay bills, but I’d look like a sloth on a pole. It would take me a little while to bend over or get into any position at all, really. And forget about synching my body to music, ha! White girls (like me) don’t grind well.

Make it rain? I have enough trouble making it shade. That crap’s hard to figure out when you have one umbrella and the sun keeps moving.

If I could, I guess I’d have a lot of fun being a stripper and for sure my stripper name would be Sweet Tits, because that’s my favorite pet name, but it just wouldn’t get me enough tips. I do think the gentlemen should pay more for a larger dancer because clearly I suffer from inflation so their $1 tips should be at least tripled. But still, they’re probably not going to be so keen to tip for my dancing services at all.

I mean, isn’t it adorable when guys expect your boobs and nipples to be in the same place they imagined them to be before you take your clothes off?

My nipples look like lazy eyes trying to stare at different points on the floor. I’d rather just sit and catch my breath on your lap than grind on it. Plus, I’ve never looked at a large cage and thought, “Man, I’d love to dance in that thing!” and I’d be constantly telling patrons to “Put your tongue back in your pants, Mister”.

Though I’m thinking of opening my own neurotic dance club that should be quite lucrative.

There’s the whole sexy factor I don’t possess too. I can’t even undress without falling over, let alone doing it for dollars in a sexy manner. Just imagine what happens when someone tries to undress me as arms and elbows and wayward boobs go flying willy-nilly. Sure, I can do a striptease for you, but it’s guaranteed to end with my laughing and waiting out your frustration and crushed fantasy.

Sometimes I’m like a flash mob of one. Also sometimes I’m like a flesh mob of one. 

Nevertheless, I’m really sexy when I’m all alone in my car and I’m chair dancing. I do love to chair dance and my kids support the habit as long as their friends don’t see me. Oddy likes it when we get a good song on the radio and rock the Momster minivan side to side at a stop light.

Sometimes I dance around the kitchen with my brownie, if that counts. And I’m not a trained Hawaiian dancer, but I play one in my underwear. All alone. With my blinds open for my neighbors. That’s as public as it gets and you’ll be sorry for watching.

But listen; taking me dancing means you get to do the dancing while I sit sipping on my straw, having a great time laughing. I’m usually too busy, tired, and selfish to force myself to do things I don’t really want to. I think that’s why I fail marriages. That and 30 other reasons.

So it’s hard to get me out. But on one of those rare nights that I’m not being a hermit, let’s go. I’ll take my bimonthly shower, brush my three teeth, and push my hemorrhoids in, so I’ll be ready to mingle.


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My liver still thanks you. 

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