The Night I Realized I Can’t Dance

That company party was supposed to be a fun night out with my colleagues, a chance to let loose and enjoy ourselves away from the daily grind. The venue was a trendy rooftop bar with a great view of the city skyline, and the atmosphere was already buzzing when I arrived. I had a few drinks to loosen up and decided to hit the dance floor when I saw some of my coworkers already grooving to the music.

I spotted Lisa, a colleague from the design department, standing by the bar, and I thought, “Why not?” I walked over, extended my hand, and asked her to dance. She smiled and took my hand, and we made our way to the dance floor.

At first, it felt great. The music was upbeat, and I was in the zone, moving to the rhythm. I was trying to be smooth, thinking I looked pretty cool, but then I noticed something was off. People were starting to stare, and I could see them exchanging glances and trying not to laugh.

I kept dancing, thinking maybe I was just being paranoid, but then I realized what was happening. My moves were completely out of sync with the beat. I was a man out of time, flailing around like a marionette on a string while everyone else was moving in perfect harmony. It was like a bad dream, and I couldn’t wake up.

I tried to play it cool, acting like I was intentionally doing some sort of weird, avant-garde dance, but the humiliation was written all over my face. I could feel my cheeks burning, and I just wanted the ground to swallow me up.

Lisa was trying her best to keep a straight face, but she was failing miserably. She kept mouthing “sorry” to me, and that’s when I knew it was bad. The room was full of laughter, and I was the joke. I tried to laugh it off, but inside, I was dying.

“What are you doing up there?” someone shouted, and the room erupted in applause. I could feel my face turning a shade of red that I’m sure matched the neon lights of the city skyline behind us.

I finally managed to escape the dance floor and headed straight for the bar, ordering a strong drink to drown my sorrows. The rest of the night was a blur. Every time someone looked at me, I could see the memory of my dance-floor disaster reflected in their eyes.

Walking into work the next day was pure torture. Everyone kept bringing up my “performance” from the night before, and I could feel my face turn red every time. “Did you see [Your Name]’s moves last night?” “I can’t unsee that, thanks a lot, Pen.” The jokes were endless, and I just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.

But you know what? It could have been worse. At least I gave them a good story to tell, and in the grand scheme of things, it’s just a funny memory now. A reminder to stick to what I’m good at and leave the dancing to the professionals.