For those of you who know me now as Kevin the man, I would like to share with you a bit of my dark and chilling past, a part of my life I call Kevin the Junior High-teen. It may shock many of you who have recently met me and have been swept off your feet by my charm and grace, but I, like many of you, was once an awkward pimply confidence lacking teenager. Before I could drive, I would stomp through the snow with my two left feet to the local junior high school where my voice cracked when called on in class and where talking to girls without sweating was harder than physical education. One experience in particular has seared a memory so troubling into my brain that I am just now, nearly 10 years later, overcoming its effects.
My first Junior High dance was going to be the most amazing night of my life. Nate and I prepared for this night since 6th grade when we had heard that “junior high chicks were hot and would put out”. (At this time we didn’t know what “put out” meant but we had heard older kids say it and thought it was cool.) This attitude and hope would carry with us throughout our educational years. As 9th graders we were eager to meet all the hot high school ladies who were no doubt just as excited to meet us, and as seniors we couldn’t wait to peruse about the scandalous college women we were bound to run into at all kinds of “Animal House-esq” parities the next year. So, the night of our first junior high dance I pulled out all the stops. Wearing my buttoned up short sleeved plaid shirt that my mom bought me from American Eagle and my best and lightest colored khaki shorts I made my way over to Nate’s. There we would cover every inch of ourselves with Tommy Hilfiger cologne. The ladies would love us. After Nate’s mom dropped us off at the school and she was out of site, I unbuttoned my American Eagle shirt and exposed the cutoff-t I had underneath. Sorry girls, resistance is futile. As the event progressed we saw some of the older kids dancing in a rather provocative manner. Now I had heard rumors of something called “grinding” but had never imagined it would look so awesome. A mess of hips and legs swirled around me. In my head I could hear Patrick Swayze telling me not to be afraid and to try this new kind of “dirty dancing”, but I was too scared. This was all too new and I had to wait it out. Slowly, one by one, my more outgoing friends found themselves on the dance floor with girls, grinding, and eventually it was just me, against the wall drowning my sorrows in a paper cup of Mt. Dew. I never wanted anything more in my whole life than to dance with someone like the 9th graders were. Finally, a girl friend of mine approached me, my heart raced along with the fast beat of the song. She asked me if I wanted to dance. It didn’t take much thinking; Swayze rang out in my mind. “Nobody buts baby in a corner”, and I walked onto the floor with her. With interlocking legs we began to dance, like the 9th graders were. I was so proud of myself for getting out on that floor and glad that I could help make the night of this special girl a little brighter by sharing some good old fashion dirty dancing with her. It was not me that was controlling my body, it was the music. My friend and I danced for what was apparently no more than 10 seconds before she stopped, took a step back and said to me, “you’re joking right?” Now it dawned on me what I had been doing during our short dance together. I was, to put it nicely, humping her leg, just moving my pelvis back and forth to the beat. I learned that night that that is not how you dance. I told her that I was joking. I wasn’t. I forced a laugh and walked away. Watching the older kids dance was a mess. I couldn’t tell what the hell they were doing and I was just trying my best. After that night I refused to dance for about 5 years. Even in college I would pass up opportunities to hang out with my friends and to spend time with crushes if I knew there was a chance that a dance floor would be involved.
This is not a tragedy though. This is a triumph. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, over the past couple years I have learned to overcome my fear of dancing only to share with the world some of the sickest moves ever seen. I now can dance in a crowded bar without fear of being laughed at, not just because I am confident that I am one of the best dancers this side of the muddy Miss but more importantly because I don’t care what the others think. All I need is a hot track and 2 square feet of floor and I will teach you a valuable lesson: Don’t take yourself so seriously.
THANKS.
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