There are only a precious few times in life when you can go from eating a brat at a football game to donning a suit and attending a wedding in a single day. I was fortunate, nay blessed, enough to experience one such day last weekend. But while those crowds don't tend to mingle, I couldn't help but notice that we all end up dancing around like drunken lunatics.
I think it would be fair to say I'm not in the ""suit and tie"" crowd. In fact, my crowd tends to be a friendly gathering of politically charged hippies. I prefer the Coors to the cosmo, so to speak.
As a result, I'm always hesitant to accept invitations to events in which I have to dig deep into the back of my closet for acceptable attire, and even then my high fashion is considerably suspect. But ultimately, the lure of the open bar was enough to overcome my formal wear apprehension.
If society could somehow harness the allure of the philanthropic drink, I'm pretty sure we'd have 100 percent voter turnout, find a cure for cancer and end world thirst, at least until the next morning.
By the time we got to the reception my anticipation was palpable, even enough to ignore the choking sensation of my necktie and that top button on my dress shirt. What I soon found, and what I should have known from the beginning, was that there would be a catch—I was going to have to dance. In public.
Generally speaking, I'm not averse to dancing, but only within the confines of poorly populated, dimly lit rooms where my flailing limbs aren't liable to cause injury to person or property.
On top of this, the DJ apparently stopped acquiring new music circa 1985, as his collection of tunes was never less than 20 years old. I'm talking Bee Gees and disco balls old here. I'm all for reinforcing stereotypes, but this guy was taking it a little too far.
The combination was certainly daunting, but if I had made it this far, I certainly wasn't going to turn around in the face of unlimited free drinks now. Maybe it was the well-priced booze or a particularly rousing rendition of ""Thriller"" talking, but I ended up letting loose and having a great time. Summoning the Fifth Quarter ""Chicken Dance"" prowess I acquired earlier that afternoon, I can be pretty confident I busted more than a couple moves.
It goes without saying that watching a roomful of white people dance is like watching someone pull teeth. It's painful and gruesome, yet almost impossible to look away. My point is that it doesn't matter. At some point, recognizing the fact that you aren't Patrick Swayze from ""Dirty Dancing"" can be a pretty liberating feeling.
Good company doesn't mind your awful moves, and chances are they'll be right next to you making their own, whether it's the Fifth Quarter or in front of dozens of middle-aged relatives, sometimes both in one day.
I learned that sometimes in life you need to stop worrying about whether your necktie (or spilled mustard) matches your shirt (it doesn't), and allow yourself the freedom to be laughed at. It was worth every penny.
