Terpsichore

In the very dark basement of a bunch of shops across from the University of Colorado, there was a place where kids could go and drink beer. And dance.
That second part wasn't necessarily the feature I was after when I first made my way down the stairs into Pogo's. It was the cheap beer. Or what seemed like cheap beer to me. I suppose the fact that they advertised their pitchers as a bargain at a dollar apiece. It also made accounting pretty mindless. If I went in with ten dollars, I was pretty sure that I would weave by the time I walked out.
But first I would dance.
Somewhere in the haze of that fourth pitcher of Coors Light, the deflector shields of my inhibitions lowered to the point where the music that poured into the club from speakers that were far too large to be in anyone's basement took hold. Initially, I made the casual but fatal mistake of asking girls that I did not know to dance with me. Later I discovered that bringing along a group of friends, some of whom were girls, I could avoid this sloppy interpersonal connection and assume that one of them would probably be willing to sacrifice their dignity for the sake of a twirl across the floor with your truly. Not that there were lots of eyes on individuals there. In the cellar named Pogo's, there wasn't enough light or distance between sweaty bodies to discern who was making a fool out of whom.
I knew.
I was the one flailing around in my own hysteric tribute to Elwood Blues and David Byrne. I was the one who was not making scene so much as creating one. Not that anyone else seemed to care. I was just one of the herd of hungry drunk boys, shaking what might have been loosely defined as "my groove thing."
This went on for several years. Eventually two things happened to affect the course of events: I stopped drinking, and Pogo's the new wave dance club became Ground Zero the goth and industrial music club. One night, for old time's sake, I went down those stairs with some friends who were a shade younger than I. A whole new generation to embarrass.
Except I wasn't drinking. I was moved by the swirling sounds of The Cure and Ministry to toss my body around in many of the same ways I had when it was Thomas Dolby and Billy Idol, only now there was some thought behind it. Not a lot, but I was no longer simply acting out the videos I had seen on MTV. I had new inspiration, like the African Dance class my friend was taking. And the dance floor was never quite so crowded, leaving me to work up a sweat all on my own. There was no need for a partner. A partner would just get in the way. There were plenty of times that I had to floor to myself. The same black and white floor that had been filled with undergrads dancing to Rock Lobster by the B-52s was now a relatively vast expanse for people like me to thrash out their inner demons.
And it was this place where my future wife and I descended some twenty-eight years ago. I proceeded to do my thing and she stared in wonder. She had no idea I could dance. Well, maybe a little, but it put her in mind of how we might even find ourselves going out on the weekends to dance clubs and tripping the light fantastic.
Which isn't exactly what happened. I got older. I became a husband and then a father, and my dancing days fell behind me. But every so often, when the mood strikes me or I have that cheap beer flashback that everyone warned me about, I get up and move.
It's not a pretty sight, but it's all mine.