My wife laments the tune ‘Dancing With Myself’

     The charge was issued on the way home from Reading, Pa.

   “You’ll dance with your granddaughter, and you’ll dance with Katie in Ireland, but you won’t dance with me,’’ complained my editor of 41 years.

   “That’s not true,’’ I countered.

    “Oh, really,’’ Mary said. “You’re good at making up BS excuses.’’

    Usually I ignore these charges, but with her grievance aired, or lobbed like a live marriage grenade, I felt compelled to respond.

    “Whoa, last time we were with the grandkids, you criticized me for not responding when Vivian started wiggling around the living room.’’

  So when Vivi eyeballed me and started gyrating, I had to respond, albeit lamely.

   “When we were in Ireland (Fibber Magee’s in Belfast), I knew I had to dance with Katie when the music was jumping.’’

   Katie had waited 20 years to go to Ireland and her 40^th birthday party was approaching. So I pulled her into a horde of hopping legs and swirling arms then spun her around several times. I think it is called the Old White Guys Wedding Shuffle.

    The truth remains – I don’t dance much anymore. My stance, as in my feet aren’t moving, is that if I’m not good at something, I don’t do it. That explains why I go to the driving range between golf rounds and shoot on off days when I’m not managing the morning basketball game at the YMCA. Pride dictates that I want to appear capable.

   Ditto for dancing.

    As a confirmed nerd, perhaps the role model for Napoleon Dynamite, I didn’t dance much in high school. When I arrived at Buffalo State College, my friend Deb from the Bronx was much more a worldly social person and a patient instructor. She taught me The Hustle in her dorm room. Pretty soon, we were turning the beat around at the student union pub. Vicki Sue Robinson never saw so many missteps, but I transformed from nerd to somewhat cool rugby player.

    Those moves were still in style as a young news reporter on the east side of Cleveland, although if comedienne Joan Rivers remained alive I still would be apologizing profusely. The Queen of the Facelift was a wisp of a thing, at 5-foot-2 and perhaps 90 pounds, when my 6-foot-3, 215-pound frame stepped squarely on her foot. I issued a few mea culpas but they were drowned out by the music. She did manage to smile and indicate she was alright.

     If I’m such a lousy husband and dancer, how come I remember the song played for our wedding dance – Just The Way You Are by Billy Joel. So when the charge is hurled – “you never dance with me’’ – I simply recall the lyrics: “Don’t go changing, to try and please me.’’ I won’t.

   For the record, I danced with Claire Eileen at her wedding – My Girl by The Temptations. It always stirs the memory of belting this out before last call in suburban Cleveland with my photographer pal, Chuck Crow, and pledging to sing it to our own daughters someday. Check that one off the bucket list.

    Dancing at weddings today is difficult. I’m more of an Orleans guy – Dance With Me. The music was rhythmic but not too fast. Two of my nieces have been married in recent years and the dance floor seemed like a tiled mosh pit. The young people were jumping up and down to a driving, bass-driven techno beat. That doesn’t fit my Dire Straits and Atlanta Rhythm Section speed and mentality.

  Despite my BS reasoning, the charge persisted – “you never dance with me.’’

   It was time to defend my honor and my two left feet. I went through the website of Rochester Area Community Foundation where Mary had worked as senior vice president of communications. I knew I had donned my gray suit and attended several galas to benefit charities and programs of this philanthropic outfit. There they were. Two photos of us cutting the rug at a charity event. Mary was wearing two different dresses. That means two different galas. Incontrovertible evidence.

   She was undaunted.

  “You still make up all these stupid excuses at weddings,’’ she said during a shopping excursion.

   “Hey, when you’re gone, I’m going to be a big hit down in Florida,’’ I chuckled, dreaming of the longer golf season. “There are going to be a bunch of older women eyeing me, saying, ‘He’s tall, he can drive, and I bet he can dance.’ “

   She was stunned at my lousy humor.

   Then, a gift from the heavens, was piped over the store’s loudspeaker system.

Jimmy Mack
Jimmy
Oh, Jimmy Mack
When are you coming back?

   Martha and the Vandellas had come to my rescue.

  “They’re singing about me, Mary. And it’s a good song to dance to.’’

   Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/