From the tender age of five, my feet have been under the spell of rhythm. Growing up, I was inducted into the neighborhood’s coolest crew, Saturn Soul – a breakdancing gang that turned birthday parties into dance floors. They even made me a custom shirt, spelling out my name in vibrant red felt, a badge of honor I wore with immense pride. My signature move was the backspin, and in my five-year-old mind, I was untouchable. That was until reality, in the form of a 14-year-old named Igor and his windmill move, intervened. During one practice session, my backspin ambitions collided, quite literally, with Igor’s spinning legs.
Luckily, the only casualties were a slightly bruised ego and a stern lecture from my mother and brother. They just didn’t grasp the sheer power of music. Once Shannon’s “Let the Music Play” filled the air, I transformed. Concerns about Igor’s limbs becoming accidental baseball bats were irrelevant. All that mattered was the irresistible urge to dance.
Fast forward three decades, and this dance-floor fever is not only alive but has intensified. Car roofs, tabletops, grocery aisles, office spaces – nowhere is safe from my impromptu performances. And my signature move evolved too. The backspin, while classic, was replaced by the powerslide – which, I must confess, I still consider myself awesome at, even if my knees bear the brunt of this “awesomeness” in the form of bruises and rug burns.
However, recent events have forced me to confront a harsh truth. A misguided attempt to powerslide my way through “Gangnam Style” has led me to the painful realization: it might be time to hang up my dancing shoes, or at least, seriously reconsider my signature moves.
The turning point? Attempting this ambitious slide while clad in a full turkey costume. Yes, you read that right. Firstly, let’s be honest, a turkey suit is not the most flattering attire for showcasing one’s dance prowess. Secondly, the highly flammable, faux-felt material severely hampered my slide control. In retrospect, a knee injury was a lucky escape. The friction from that slide could have easily ignited the costume, turning me into a – wait for it – smoked turkey. Perhaps, after this poultry-related performance blunder, it’s time to admit, I’m never gonna dance again with the same reckless abandon.
