Filled with giddy excitement over the pie, Albert danced and frolicked all around the kitchen. After some time, he calmed and found that it had gotten quite late. He then packed the rest of the pie safely away in the refrigerator and got ready for bed.
05.10.2021
I am not much of a dancer.
My first memory of being at anything that resembled a dance was in junior high school. I remember standing at the doors of the gym and looking in at a space that looked nothing like the place I had PE classes or where I attended basketball practice. The overhead lighting was turned off and some softer source was being used to create an effect that I can’t bring myself to call romantic, because surely our middle school teachers wouldn’t have wanted to get caught encouraging anything of that nature—middle schoolers are already working through enough as it is. There were decorations about the place, and small, awkwardly postured crowds of thirteen and fourteen year-olds were scattered around the floor. I was very thankful that at that exact moment, I remembered that there would be a game of softball going on outside on the field during the dance. As I breathed in the fresh air and appreciated how the sun made most everything around me visible, and therefore known and comfortable, I made my way to the softball game.
Much later in life, I had another experience having to do with dancing. My wife and I had just gotten married, and we decided to take a round of Irish dancing classes that were being offered not far from where we lived. It was eight weeks long, and I quickly realized I was out of my league. My wife was a natural, whirling and stepping around the room with grace and speed. I, however, did not move with such steadiness through those lessons. When we were about six or seven weeks into the course, I had finally started to catch on to some of the simpler sequences and it was starting to be fun. At that point, the instructor announced that we were ready to move on to a more complex dance. She demonstrated and we walked through it several times at half speed to get a feel for the new dance. As the music began at its normal speed, I grit my teeth as we all started moving about the floor. I just hoped that I wouldn’t disrupt the collective rhythm or step on anyone as I tried to keep up. After a few disorienting minutes, the song ended and so did the dance. I had not, in fact, ruined anyone’s rhythm or stepped on any toes. I was about ready to count this as a success, when the instructor walked over to the wall behind me and looked down at a spot about six inches off of the floor. Without looking up at me, she said, “I think you put a hole in the wall just a moment ago.” I looked down and saw a heel-shaped hole in the drywall and knew it must have been me.
I am not much of a dancer.
