I am not a good dancer. Hell, I can't dance for sh*t, so I just pretty much avoid dancing altogether unless I am home alone, or unless I have had a few too many drinks.
Years ago a friend asked me to be her maid of honor. HUGE GROAN, but I agreed to do it. I had to wear a red satin t-length dress with a white sash and way too much cleavage showing. HUGE GROAN. But that wasn't the worst part.
When I showed up to the wedding and met the best man, I was nervous. He was very thin, attractive and athletic looking. I was immediately suspicious, and casually asked him what he did for a living. He giddily told me that he was a professional dancer. A PROFESSIONAL DANCER.
I looked at him with narrowed eyes and knew this was not going to be good for me. Not at all. Especially when he elaborated and told me that he lived to dance (?!), and that he could not get enough of salsa, tap, ballet, and break dancing.
To illustrate his point, he gave me quick demonstrations of each dance, shimmying and shaking all around me, complete with jazz hands. And told me he could not wait to dance with me.
Well of course my brain went in to RED ALERT and AVOID-THIS-MAN-AT-ALL-COST planning mode.
When it was time for us to dance, I was conveniently hiding in a bathroom stall, with feet raised against the door. When the intercom paged my name saying I was needed on the dance floor, I ignored it. When I heard my name being shouted about the place demanding that I come out to the dance floor, I ignored it. And I am sure he got his dance on just fine without me.