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Ok, I think I have finally figured out why the dating scene is so tough for me. And no, it has nothing to do with me not being sensitive enough; or being afraid of commitment; or being afraid or opposed to a strong, successful woman; or not having a job; or being too fat. In fact, that's what is so surprising and confounding about it. I have all those things that those over-thirty, biological-clock-ticking - dare I say desperate - single women claim they want. I am everything those women say they desire in a man, but say they can't find anymore, anywhere. But, after much investigation and soul searching, I have figured out the problem: I can't dance.
Yep; it is as simple as that. I absolutely despise going into one of those horribly loud, chokingly smoky, dimly lit bars (or night clubs, or discos, or whatever they're calling them these days), walking out to the middle of the floor, and shaking myself silly in a futile attempt to look "cool." I see absolutely no sense in taking a shower, dressing in freshly washed and ironed clothes, and dashing myself with the most expensive and alluring cologne I can buy, only to sweat myself and my clothes to the point where even I can't stand being around myself.
I guess it all started out back in elementary school - physical education (or gym, as we called it back in the dark ages). I got ready to go to gym to play baseball, or tag, or even to do gymnastics. But every six weeks or so, the gym teacher would line us up for 60 minutes of the joy of... square dancing. Now, if there's anything more stupid than a bunch of eight-year olds trying to listen to the gym teacher shouting out "do-si-do" commands over the voice of Patsy Cline, I honestly don't know what it is. (All right, I suppose that square dancing to the singing of Janis Joplin would have been a bit more idiotic - thank goodness this was just slightly before her time.) I don't imagine that the gym teacher much enjoyed it, either. After all, I doubt seriously if Coach Heinlen went to college just so that he could teach a bunch of kids how to do an "allemande-left."
And it didn't get better in junior high, either. No, we didn't have square dancing in gym anymore. But my mother, in her ultimate wisdom, thought that I should learn some basic, social graces before I became totally uncontrollable. So she enrolled me in the school's dance club, the Byron Junior Partners. I think she started a conspiracy with Mrs. Levine, my best friend's mother, and got her to sign him up too. I'll bet if Norm Levine ever found out how that got started, he'd never speak to me again. Hey... maybe it was the other way around! After all, Mrs. Levine did work for a dance studio. Hmmmm. Norm - no more Christmas cards for you, pal. (I know; many of you may not catch the subtle irony in that. But such it the plight of a struggling, young writer.)
Anyway, at Byron Junior Partners they taught us how to do the Fox Trot, the Waltz, and the Jitterbug, among other classic dance moves. They even taught us how to do that new dance craze, the Twist. Mr. Levine, Norm's father, gave us some outside tutoring as well. He said that doing the Twist was like wiping your rear end with a bath towel while at the same time snuffing out a cigarette on the floor. Somehow, I just couldn't relate to that picture. Now, watching the girl of my dreams, Marilyn Heiser, wiping her rear end with a towel did have some appeal to me, but Marilyn hadn't shown up for Byron Junior Partners in several weeks. And when she did, she was always wearing clothes. And, as I recall, I never saw her wiping her rear end - with a towel, or anything else, for that matter. Pity.
I don't know whether it was good or bad, but they never did teach us any of those other modern dances - you know, the Frugue, the Wattusi, the Jerk, or the Mashed Potatoes. Now, I do recall singing along to "The Name Game" several times; that was kind of fun. But I think it's fair to say that the Byron Junior Partners never did prepare me for my life as a single baby boomer. My dancing skills stopped at doing a slow, rocking dance to the Righteous Brothers' "Unchained Melody." In fact, that still marks the limit of my dancing skills - and I kind of like it that way. After all, it would be mighty hard to top "Unchained Melody."
So today I am more lost than ever. As far as I can tell, the dances don't even have names anymore. But it doesn't matter; I still can't do them. Now I'll concede, country music does have its own, named dances. But this thing called "Country Line Dancing" is nearly as stupid as the Hokey Pokey. Give me a break! And there's a variation of country line dancing called the "Tush Push." Excuse me? The Tush... Push? Oh, please! This is just proof that some people don't know their tush from a hole in the wall!
But apparently that still leaves me totally ill-equipped for the modern mating rituals of the 21st century. I read through the singles' personal ads recently and noted that 80% of all the women said that they wanted someone who likes dancing. Then I conducted a survey of 18 happily married couples in my age group. (And believe me, it was no easy task finding 18 happily married couples!) I asked them how important a part dancing played in their relationship. I'll bet that it will come as no surprise to you that 15 of them said that dancing was of virtually no importance. The other three said that they do go out dancing on occasion. Yeah, and I'll bet all three end up in divorce court within six months.
Now, if I were a serious sociologist, I could come up with all sorts of interesting and revealing conclusions from this. But I'm not a sociologist. I'm just an eligible, aging baby boomer, not afraid of commitment, not gay, not on drugs, not in jail, not unemployed, not carrying around emotional baggage, not overweight and not afraid of a strong, successful woman. And I can't get a date to save my neck.
Where did I go wrong?
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Copyright © 1997-2008 Baby Boomer HeadQuarters (BBHQ) All rights reserved.
rev. 06/10/01