Can’t Dance, to Fat to Fly

White Man Dancing

White Man Dancing

I’m not quite 40 yet, but my body has begun to give me hints that it doesn’t move as fast as it used to.

Maybe it’s the achy joints, or the inability to process a triple, extra bacon, extra cheese hamburger as quickly as I did in my 20’s without the need to quaff my favourite stomach remedy .  Maybe it’s excitement I feel when I think that maybe I’ll have a chance at a nap before dinner.

I was never any Travolta, but man, I could cut a rug when I was younger.  I head-banged to heavy metal without having a sore neck the next morning, I moshed and bounced and picked myself off the ground  like a warrior.  I felt cool, could go as low as I could go, I slow danced with passion, and never felt like a night could end.

Now,  I have this fear of doing the old man dance.  I don’t want to do the two arm shuffle, barely able to raise my hands above my shoulders or have my feet raise up and raise down as if I’m slowly stomping out a flaming bag of poo on my front porch.  I’m nervous that if I ever again think about entering a mosh pit, I’d bruise something and fall to the ground as if I’ve been shot.

I admit I have danced in the past year or so, and kind words have been said to me from some very lovely ladies, but they were friends, and really, can you trust your friends when you’re moving like your dad?  I just know, that once lubricated with some very good whiskey, dance floor beware, the 20 year old is going to come out, and be damned with the old man dance, I’m going to stay alive, and remember why I love movin’ with the music.

About Geof Smith

A technology lover that has oozing thoughts. Blogger for Living Like A Boss ( and BlackBerry Empire ( View all posts by Geof Smith

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