No Rhythm Required

I don't care how many bodybags you've shot, there's redemption for the taking at the Father-Daughter Dance. Thrice now, I've capped off a February workweek with a visit to The Empire Room - where attorneys, airplane mechanics and the occasional TV cameraman can be found leading their princesses through the first tentative steps of The Macarena. I didn't say it was pretty; just redemptive. Don't believe me? Check out the Sales Executive over there - the one with his hands in the air like he just don't care. Ninety minutes ago he was clutching a letter opener while fighting the urge to sink it in a client's neck. Now he's pumping his fists to a Kelly Clarkeson song his high school freshman knows by heart. Where is she, anyway? There she is - hiding behind that drink cart.

Truth is, the little girls are the most fun. There's just something intrinsically life-affirming about a conga-line of kindergarteners snaking through a crowded ballroom - no matter how bad your feet hurt in those damned dress shoes. Besides, where else can you see a forty year old Pharmaceutical Rep 'stir the soup' to an old No Doubt song? They don't sell pills for that. And that guy who looks like he should be head of the I.T. department at a Insurance Agency. Someone tell him if you're gonna even attempt The Robot, you gotta commit! No wonder his little Princess is sobbing uncontrollably. I'd cry too if my old man shook like that.

As for my girls, they're here somewhere. Except the occasional slow dance, the don't want to be anywhere near, should the lack of rhythm hit me. At ages 11 and 14, there's little they can come to terms with. Missing remotes, borrowed earrings, stolen glances - it doesn't take much to spark a backseat insurrection. But on the following they wholeheartedly agree: Daddy Shouldn't Dance. SO I float, drifting from wife at the refreshment table to the deejay booth to that putz from the cul-de-sac who thinks my company car means I want to discuss local politics all the time. I could give a rip. I'd much rather wander the floor, looking for white man underbite and red-faced 'tweeens. Plenty of that here...

Still, the smile that spreads across muy furry mug every year this time has little to do with the attempting The Worm over there. No, the fact that I'm here at all - the father of two wonderful daughters who are actively pursuing a lifestyle I hand't yet perceived at their age. Those two carry a piece of my soul in their purses - along with more lipgloss than I want to think about. I'm pretty good with words but I still haven't imparted upon them the depth of my affection. Hell, lemme tell 'em now, tear them away from their friends for as much Daddy Hug as allowed in public. I bet they're on opposite sides of the dance floor, spreading rumors about each other they don't really mean. I bet they're formulating putdowns even as I speak. I bet they're - over there, barefoot, hand in hand, dancing together like only young girls can...

Redemption, I tell ya.