In Jami Attenberg’s 2013 novel “The Middlesteins,” a chapter unfolds at a bar and bat mitzvah, narrated from the unified perspective of the parents’ friends. These Cohns, Grodsteins, Weinmans, and Frankens, so alike they merge into a collective “we,” lament their age, “almost forgotten but not quite old enough to be heralded for still being alive.” Seated together at the reception, they embody a certain stage of life, one the author initially found deeply depressing. During the reception, their participation is minimal, limited to a single, quick dance before thoughts drift to mundane errands and distant grandchildren. Time, even at a celebration, feels like it’s slipping away.
Reading this, one might vow to avoid becoming “those people,” the reluctant guests merely going through the motions. Yet, for a decade, the author confesses to being precisely that guest, viewing celebrations as obligations, complaining about the music, and calculating the earliest polite exit.
However, a shift occurred. As friends’ children began marrying, a realization dawned: fading into the background wasn’t the desired path. At the next wedding, instead of resisting the energy of the event, the author pulled his wife onto the dance floor. Embracing his admittedly limited dance repertoire, a new vow was made: to remain dancing until the music stopped. This commitment stuck.
This transformation can be partly attributed to the pandemic. Emerging from lockdown, there was a collective desire to embrace life more fully, to “let life out of the box,” as poet Tony Hoagland wrote. For the author, Jewish tradition also played a role. The Talmud highlights simchat chatan v’kallah, rejoicing with the bride and groom, as a mitzvah, a commandment, not just a suggestion.
Recognizing potential self-consciousness on the dance floor, ancient rabbis offered reassurance. The story of Rabbi Shmuel son of Rabbi Isaac, who juggled myrtle twigs before the bride, illustrates that even esteemed scholars could joyfully participate. When questioned about this seemingly undignified behavior, Rabbi Shmuel’s actions were not seen as diminishing his stature or Torah knowledge, but rather as a unique and blessed expression of joy.
Jewish history itself provides further inspiration. Anita Diamant, in “The Jewish Wedding,” quotes Holocaust survivors who viewed dancing at Jewish weddings as “dancing on Hitler’s grave.” Weddings, therefore, become powerful acts of resilience, “a repudiation of past griefs, and a celebration of the here and now.”
Through personal experience, a key insight emerged: embracing the dance floor, even awkwardly, is admirable. Compliments from brides, grooms, and other guests for “closing down the dance floor” became a recurring experience. This isn’t to disrespect those who choose not to dance, but rather to highlight the unexpected joy and connection found in participation.
This newfound perspective culminated at the author’s middle child’s wedding. Amidst loud music and a packed dance floor, a profound sense of belonging and expansive joy filled the room, encompassing both dancers and observers. In celebrating young love amidst an uncertain world, the author found himself fully present, embracing the moment as “Mr. Brightside.”
The key takeaway? Sometimes, you just need to Dance With Me Shut Up and let go of inhibitions. The dance floor, often a site of potential self-consciousness, can transform into a space of unexpected joy and connection when you simply decide to participate fully. So, next time the music plays, consider joining in – you might be surprised by what you discover.
