“Thanks for asking!
I can’t dance.
No, you don’t understand –
I’m not just the white guy at the party,
I’m the white guy at this party.
The I-didn’t-know-someone-could-be-that-off-beat white guy.
I’m being serious,
it’s as if my hips were possessed at a young age,
and I’m still trying to exorcise the demon
that made it possible to be quite this bad at moving my body.
I’m the I-give-up-you-literally-have-no-rhythm white guy.
Sure, I can clap along to music,
I can even bop in time (sometimes).
give me dance moves? Give me… choreography?!
Ha! Not a chance sister,
I’m not a ‘running man’ kinda man,
I’m more of a ‘slow and unsteady might finish the race but
will probably sprain their ankle’ man.
I mean, none of that stops me trying.
I can’t dance, I’ve accepted it
even though I’ve tried and tried,
what I do? It’s more post-dance performance.
Imagine I’m from a time after the dance apocalypse
all the moves are forgotten:
the potato got a little overmashed,
the harlem shook too much and
the twist got tangled.
Whilst I’m doing my best to figure them out
I’m still at a stage where I’m performing them all at once
in an effort to work out what’s time warp and what’s stanky leg.
So no but thanks for asking, it’s very kind of you!
In the interest of your safety,
wellbeing and general sanity
I’ll have to decline – I won’t have this dance.
keep it. At least you’ll leave here in one piece.”
-A.Webb (first draft)