A month or so ago, I posted a blog about how I can’t stand the swings at the playground. Because my kids just want to plop down on those suckers and be pushed, which completely defeats what I believe to be the whole purpose of a trip to the park. Namely, exercise for the boys. But I think the truth is that I actually can’t stand pushing Big Brother on the swings. I’d push Little Brother all day. Not fair? Perhaps. But, Big Brother is five now so I feel like he should be hopping on the swings, receive one solid push (an underdog even!) from me and off he should go. PUMPING. Higher and higher and higher. Any self-respecting five-year old should be able to PUMP, right? Right? I thought so. Well, not my kid. And today I figured out why.
The child has no rhythm. None. Nada. Zilch.
And pumping requires a little rhythm. Swing up, toes back, lean forward, swing back, toes up, lean back. Swing up, toes back, lean forward, swing back, etc. He’s so off beat with it all I feel badly for the kid. It’s hard to watch. Painful, in fact. And, the worst part is…
It’s all my fault.
Because you know who else has no rhythm? Me.
You might not know this about me but…I can’t dance. Like, at all.
I’d probably flatter myself to say my skills match these…
The only difference between Elaine and me is that I at least know I’m a bad dancer. So, I quite simply don’t dance. No, not even at weddings. No, not even after I’ve had a few drinks. No, not even after I’ve had more than a few drinks. I don’t sway all around to the Dead or jump to the Macarena. I don’t strut to the Chicken Dance and I can barely manage to get my right foot in for the Hokey Pokey. And, even then, I certainly can’t shake it all about. If I really like the song, I might tap my hands on a table a little bit but I stop when I eventually realize I’m completely offbeat on that, too. Believe me when I tell you, it just isn’t pretty. My husband, who has great rhythm by the way, loves to dance when the music’s right. Sadly, though, he knows me to be rhythm challenged and, therefore, doesn’t even ask me to dance anymore. Because he knows it would be a painful experience. For both of us.
I mean, it’s certainly not the end of the world. There are plenty of people out there that can’t dance. Like, how about Phil Collins? He sang a number one hit about how he can’t dance. Or, how ’bout Ren’s friend Woody? You know, from Footloose? And they don’t get any cooler than Woody from Footloose.
Which gives me an idea. Maybe Husband can find an old abandoned warehouse, set up a swing, crank some Kenny Loggins, spike his hair and teach Big Brother to pump!
I mean, if Ren could do it…
Confessions of a Serial Swooper 