Episode 276
At this point I have to get too close to you: do you dance? Do you drive, as soon as lively music sounds, the rhythm with such mark and emphasis in the leg that you can’t help but get batting instantly? Or are you more of that genre for which occasional rhythmic nods or foot stages are already the greatest possible form of delimitation?
As for me, I can rightly claim to be dancers. Before my readers imagine me as a virtuoso dance-andor dandy and passenger of the night, I have to intervene in a precisely manner: I am solo and homemade dancers. The world of the discotheques and clubs was never my habitat, which is due to the fact that my indication of the music selection is too low and that too many other people dance around in the way.
You have to have dancing in yourself
No, I’m dancing at home, but all the more passionate here. As soon as I have put on a piece with more than 85 bpm, it starts; I can’t do anything about it, nor is my relatives. I forget -forgotten I fly through the rooms, throw my extremities from me and am pure, drunken now. I can only recommend everyone to do it: The dreary Handel of the daily routine are immediately forgotten. But of course you have to have it all.
As for the classic standard dances, I am a slim path bar. Even worse, the topic is traumatic: At the zenith of my puberty, I was flushing me into the dance school like almost all my friends and schoolmates. Here I turned out to be an absolute nonvaler. While the others pushed themselves over the parquet to contemporary pop songs by Matt Bianco or Sade, the crushed steps simply didn’t want to go into the brain.
On the final evening, which I thought I had got along quite well with oh and noise, I also took the mother of my dance partner evil and ruined the evening. I suddenly forgot everything that I had learned so painfully before.
A few years ago, my wife wanted to do a dance course with me again. It was so much I could report on the mental injuries that I had suffered at puberty – she could not be dissuaded. After all, I was able to negotiate them for a single private lesson. So we had ourselves
On a gray Thursday to the dance school.
The dance teacher looked like Loriot, who played a dance teacher in a sketch. But he was not the problem, as expected I was: with rarely experiencing stiffness, I dripped his instructions behind, while my wife oscillated between amusement and shame. With increasing bewilderness, the dance teacher kept jerking around my hips and legs: what I organized there had to occur to him like a bitter parable on the senselessness of all existence; It cannot be ruled out that the man ate all of his dance teacher diplomas under a mistake after the hour and trained them to contract killers.
More texts by Eric Pfeil
To make matters worse, the tragedy, according to my dark memories, took place on the music of Vaya Con Dios or the Gipsy Kings, both groups that tend to take back places in the ranking of my favorite bands and to mock myself here with their excessive sound. I felt like my wooden 15-year-old self; Somewhere in the distance I heard my residual dignity groan.
But my example should not grown, but encourage: I didn’t let myself get down. My defeats on the slippery parquet of the social dance could not take the joy of the unused implementation of music in motion.
My advice: Do you often push the furniture aside at home and clarify the greatest of all human questions: Are we human or are we dancer?