To
be honest, I like the lyrics for Ms. Murray’s song, but for me the frisson of
the melody is long gone. Still, I enjoy dancing with my wife, or … don’t
tell her … probably any woman. It’s such an extraordinary thing to put
one’s arms around a woman in a fairly dispassionate setting, or so it seems to this
Irishman. I often wonder how an uptight society came to allow it, except
for the frigid holy ones among us.
As
I think back, I didn’t put my arms around a girl until my first dance at age
13. Understand that I came from a family of boys, and I’m sure that’s
pertinent. We would not have wanted a sister, but if one had been
dropped off at our house for inspection, the three of us would surely have been
polite as we walked around the girl and studied her, as a group of gallery
patrons might scrutinize a bronze statue. When she popped her chewing
gum, we would have quickly run off like scattering monkeys.
When
I entered junior high school and was forced into social functions with the
opposite sex sooner than I wanted, I found myself unable to simply walk up to a
girl and begin a conversation. I knew that such was within the scope of
male potential, because I saw other more confident boys doing so. But I
couldn’t seem to manage small talk. Even saying the word ‘dance’ felt so
unmanly that when asking a girl to dance, all I could manage was, “Would you
like to?” Had an overly sensitive father been standing at her side,
I might have received a black eye.
One
Friday night, after standing around the edge of the dance floor doing
nothing but trying to look cool, I finally worked up the courage to ask a
particular young lady if she would “like to.” As we stepped out on the floor, I very
gingerly took her hand and then swung around so that the two of us stood chest
to chest, a phrase I could never have said out loud. I slid my arm
around her and put my hand on her back. That felt brazen and intimate to
me, but everyone around us was doing the same and so far no one had been
arrested.
I
felt brilliant about my accomplishment, until I realized I was expected to make
conversation. “Would you like to” was used up and at this point certainly
not appropriate. “Nice weather,” seemed banal, even to me, and “How’s
school?” might not be successful if she had just failed an exam.
Finally,
thinking it would be safe, I tried, “How’s your mother?”
“What?”
said my surprised partner. “Do you know
her?”
“No, I just thought that… ah .. we all need to
care about our parents.”
The
conversation didn’t go much further.
But
eventually a girl came along who stayed in my arms after the dance ended, a
girlfriend. With her, my social
abilities quickly expanded, although they were never to be a natural fit.
My
wife has been the major influence of my life and has taught me the important
things. Not just social graces, but
about love and loyalty and selflessness.
I am not an apt student, and often not even appreciative. But I am convinced I found the right teacher.
“Smile,” she told me as we swung out on the
floor at our most recent command performance.
We were at the wedding of her cousin’s daughter who I thought had
married enough times to tire out the entire family. I was not smiling.
“I
don’t know how much more of this song I can take,” I said.
“Sing
it to me,” she said.
“You
first,” I said.
We
can still make each other laugh. I think
that’s called a survival skill. It’s one we’ll need if we plan to dance the
rest of our lives.
Copyright 2009, 2015 David Griffin
The
Windswept Press
Murrells
Inlet, South Carolina
www.windsweptpress.com
