Whenever you’re finished… the look on my face says I know you see me. One of us is always waiting on the other, only it feels like the shoe’s on the other foot for once. I realize we’ve been sharing a pair this whole time, two-stepping on endless loop for what feels like hours, and chuckle at my forgetfulness.
Here’s the thing…
First though, no worries– It’s a leave with the one who brought you situation – we’re both on the same page there. We have an instinctually choreographed routine we’ve been dancing all along. But, your spaghetti arms are making it really hard for me to hold my frame.
And that says a lot. You know how spaghetti-armed I am.
That’s where we’re at, though. I know it. You know it. Everyone on the floor has seen it before. Most of them have been in both our positions before, which is why no one bats an eye when you go twirling away. Standing out there alone, I looked like a real weirdo. You knew I would. But let’s not get into it, okay? We don’t have to pull the alternate stunt this go-around, as we both know how it’ll turn out…
… You’ll goad me into a big move. I’ll Batusi like John Travolta in Pulp Fiction, fingers in a strained V across my eyes. But instead of matching my energy, you’ll let the audience peek behind the curtain. You’ll drop the veil. You’ll look at me like the weirdo I am.
Unfortunately, these days, that kind of dance team couldn’t pay me enough to sashay their way. I’m old. My hip hurts most days. I wake up so early because I’m working out the creaky knees that you love “give me away.” Great for you that you can hear them coming, but they can’t carry anymore weight, darlin’. I actually almost fainted. Twice. Where were you?
Nowadays, I need someone who’s going to carry their weight in the air, someone who’s put in the time on their core strength. Granted, I might have been a twig most of my life, but I certainly appreciate the dead weight even that can be when someone suggests a human pyramid. That insanity seems to be shouted above the music an awful lot these days. But we are not a human pyramid, my friend.
The partnership must level out. I’ve got a gimpy elbow to consider. And at this point, I don’t even know if you’re on the floor anymore. So I’m not going to Patrick Swayze your Jennifer Grey in the air like a swan if I can’t see that goose a-comin’.
You’ve said you’re good.
I did, too.
You’ve said you’re just tired.
Twinning yet again…
I know, so annoying that it’s the same for me, too. We can’t keep ignoring it, though. You’ve been sidelining me like the annoying kid sister I acknowledge I’ve become, so I’m stopping now.
I’m not adding to your load, my friend.
I’m not dropping one more unchecked box on the to-do list in your mind.
Don’t get me wrong on this. I am not saying you’ve gotten too big for your britches, Queen. I’ve been on the other side of that coin, and I’ll tell ya––it’d muddy up even the shiniest tiara. Makes people’s worlds smaller, feeling so misunderstood. That’s why I need you to stop flapping me off. If you’re really not coming, I’m staying put and making due. I will solo the rest of this song if I have to.
I didn’t realize, as I was getting lost in the music, that everyone would let me dance right out the side-door. It leads into a grass-sparse, soggy field, where I kicked up quite a mess before I came back in. We always joked about my love of mud, born and bred in all those grass-seasoned, red clay cakes my sister encouraged us to eat. “How do you know unless you try it?” my mommy asked out her mouth, and I barrel-laughed away like a puppy chasing squirrels. It gives me the grit I need to come sliding back onto the hardwood. A little mud never hurt, I jeer, determined to find my way back into the routine I neglected for so long. The beat of the music mixes with the tapping feet of other dancers, and I can’t keep time.
You’ve watched me – eyebrows raised. She’ll figure it out, I can hear your mind’s eye say with a careless shrug, or she won’t. But I can’t do it for her. Your wide eyes soak up my swampy tracks with intention. You’ve been eyeing me across the way the whole time. Your eyes flick their sparks at me, but I can tell you’re not ready yet. Still chatting up associates closer to you than me. I’m distracted, looking for your feet way anyway, trying to gauge the distance way. But there’s no point. It’s too soon.
The wallflower in me wants to ha-cha-cha right back to the safety of the little dance huddle on the outskirts of the floor. But Mrs. Horton used to eyeball me for that stuff. Going back on boldness like that, she’d say, a travesty, for sure. I agree with her and hold my position.
It’s exhausting, I sulk inwardly. I’m maintaining the performer smile, but an eye is drooping. The smile is starting to shake. It’s making my jaw rattle and ache. I pull a few fierce expressions … faking it till the second-wind kicks in, but all I want to do is shout across the room for you to get your tushy back over here. I’m not saying tushy in my mind, though. The level of spicy language doesn’t matter, though. It won’t make you budge.
You’d slide me across the floor like a shop broom if you wanted, and we both know it. Me holding onto your bull’s horns, thinking I’m having fun. But you’re no bull. I’m no matador.
Your name, however, is on my dance ticket. You don’t see me anymore in the crowd, which is fine. The music and all those clacking shoes finally help me out, drowning out the rustle of me coming up behind you. Behind the shape of your frame, sticking out like a sore thumb above the shuffling heads in my way… I pucker my lips and squint you into a sharper eyeshot. I grit my teeth, too, ready to better maintain my dance space.
The bells ring. There’s no escaping the moment. All you need do is turn around.