I like to dance, dance, dance, dance

So I think I can dance. Even better that the average bear. And this has gotten me into trouble numerous times.

The problem is that, in fact, I am super white and cannot dance to save my life. But when I hear that bass line pumping, it doesn't really matter where or who I'm with. I'm gonna dance.

And it's bad. Really bad.

I think I was "ok" back in college. Because at any given time I was dancing around five to 10 to 50 other people. I blended in. Usually. Except when I grabbed a few friends and we pushed ourselves through the dance floor mob to climb atop the  club stage or other steady platform, front and center. As if we were the professional entertainment. Or the multiple times when my jerky motions knocked cups clear out of the hands of others. Yep, I was that girl at fraternity parties. Be sure to keep your drinks high and tight around me.

Then there was the one time I got a full beer dumped on my head by some girl while dancing in Chicago. I don't think it was due to my bad dance moves; rather, I think she thought I was somebody else. And apparently she didn't like that somebody else. That was great. I got her kicked out, and I continued to dance. Of course. Damp hair doesn't stop me. Although I'm sure many were wishing it would have.

And in Vegas this past spring? Let's just say I noticed even my closest of friends giving me the awkward smile and "Melissa, calm your moves down" look at The Bank at Bellagio.

The situation was particularly disturbing this past weekend, as I joined a group of unsuspecting ladies for a trip to Put-in-Bay for a bachelorette party. After a few drinks, I was feeling pretty loose and knew that my stellar moves were about ready for the dance floor. We all felt it. Like magnets we were drawn to the rhythm (it really does get you) and the seven of us began to groove. Now, PIB may just be the least classy place on earth, so I felt no judgment for my discombobulated gyrations. Or maybe I felt safe because there was a 45 year old lady wearing jeans and a knee-pad (or was it a knee-brace?) who kept doing ballet moves, including falling into full splits on at least three different occasions. I knew she was stealing the "OMG, no she di'nt..." spotlight, so I continued on my merry maniacal way.

(This is her...for real)

And my back majorly paid for it on Sunday. I'm not the nimble gal I once used to be. Or perhaps I need to start working out.

Thankfully, the opportunities for me to completely embarrass myself are now fewer and farther between. Although, we do have a few weddings coming up this fall. And the opportunity to chaparone one of Mac's school dances seems right around the corner...