Let's Dance

I viewed the invitation with trepidation. I wasn't to be a spare appendage at a wedding, but single at a 60th.

I'm well versed at fronting up to events on my own. Call me Pat Malone but in reality many years of parachuting in between cosy couples and group conversations have hardened me up, on the outside at least. There is no alternative, walk right in or wilt like a wallflower.

Knowing the calibre of the host, I knew his birthday bash would be a rip snorter of an event. And so it was. I had nothing to worry about, until it came to the dancing routine.

It takes courage and a little amber liquid to loosen my limbs and discard diffidence. But things can get decidedly sticky on a dance floor: when to move, where to move, how to move, who to move with and when to move off. No sweat? Hardly.

Women have no such dread. They flow onto the dance floor in a whimsical way. Completely absorbed, unaffected and free to shake, rattle and roll their beauty in a wonderful rhythm that no bloke can match.

Following a toast to the birthday boy, James Reyne stepped up and took us back to the 80s with some classic Australian Crawl. Perched just to the right of the stage, in what I thought was a camouflaged position, I balanced on a bar stool, mouthed some of the lyrics – mostly chorus – and began to jiggle my right leg to the beat.

I was comfortable in my space until the famed singer/songwriter took his final bow and a DJ manned the controls. Those around me drifted in his direction, leaving me the wallflower, spot lit and wilting.

Abandoning my David Brent Office-like awkwardness I channelled Patrick Swayze in an effort to shake off the shyness. In the words of author William W. Turkey I had to 'dance like nobody's watching'.

I entered the circle of gyrating girl power needing my body to move effortlessly without looking like a complete dork. It's akin to kickstarting a car;  a cough and a lurch before the engine hopefully starts to purr.

Earlier in the night I'd struck up conversation with one of the girls and we seemed to appreciate each other's desire to let loose on the floor.     

In between dance sessions we skulled glasses of water and stepped out onto the balcony of the MCA to cool off and admire the sparkling harbour city of Sydney.

There was no dirty dancing and it was over before we knew it. Hours of unsuppressed energy released from top to dancing toes.

It was time to go. "I'm not hitting on you, " she said, "but what's your number?" "We should go dancing."



https://youtu.be/p6Eaz-1_3iA