With the famous words of my sister, “What was that? Don’t do that again, that was stupid.”
I can’t dance. When I try to dance, I look like I’m painfully breaking every bone in my body. I wish I was exaggerating, but I’m not. Ask any of my friends.
I’m a generally awkward person. I do things very awkwardly. I’m skin and bones. I have no rhythm or clue as to what I’m doing half the time. I can spin in circles like the ballerinas do and get dizzy, that’s about it.
The dancing gene must’ve skipped my family. Everybody, literally everybody, in my family runs. Everybody but me. I was the one doing cartwheels, walking on my hands, and doing flips. Running in ovals repeatedly wasn’t very amusing to me. People say running is in my blood, but I can’t run a block without being extremely winded and falling over dramatically.
So… I can’t run. I can’t dance. What do I do? I do both. I make a fool of myself. I like making people laugh. Carly can’t dance either so I don’t feel too bad about myself. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to dance well, but it’s fun to try and make a fool of myself. We make up a lot of random dances and laugh endlessly at our stupidity. Synchronized Dance.
“We aren’t laughing at you, we’re laughing with you.” – everybody who sees us dance.