The first time I ever danced with a girl was in my 6th grade classroom. The teacher put on some music and drafted Marilyn W. to dance with me. Poor girl. To say I had two left feet would be a high compliment. They felt like two left flippers. I was scared to death. And I remember stepping on this poor girl’s feet in my pathetic effort to “dance.” I’m sure the experience soured poor Marilyn on the male of the species.
Fast forward to 7th grade. I had danced perhaps three or four times. I was an old hand. 7th and 8th graders were invited to “Rec” as it was called on Friday nights (“Wreck” I thought was a better name). It was a dance. . . . Few of the guys I knew ever danced. They just stood on the sidelines. Joshing. Joking. Snorting. And acting like immature boys. That is until Sharon E. walked over to me during one “slow” dance and asked me out on the floor. My friends were stunned. They stared. I was nearly apoplectic inside. But that was only a taste of what was to come. . . .
We went out on the dance floor and Sharon promptly pressed her head against my head. I remember immediately beginning to perspire. Heavily. Notwithstanding her head remained glued to mine. Sweat dripping down the both of us. And the music ended and she walked back to the line of girls. And I sheepishly went back to the line of boys feeling like I’d just emerged from a swimming pool. And got glares. And snickers. And when the slow music began again, I saw her moving in my direction. Uh oh. And we danced. I don’t think we exchanged a single word. Ever. But after a few times, it wasn’t so bad.