I equate what happens to me on a dance floor to what happens to normal people at the gynecologist.

Clammy hands, the sweats, the total body freeze. 

Now, I’m kind of awesome at the gynecologist (*pats self on back*) — after birthing three live human beings out of my nether regions, where all of my everything was on display for doctors and med students alike (yay teaching hospitals?) I have little left in the way of shame about my body. I’m like, “stirrup me up, doc, I think I’ll take a nap on your table since this is the first time today I’m not getting drinks for anyone or breaking up any arguments.”

But put me on a dance floor and I freeze like Arendelle. 

For a while it was something of a running funny joke.

I mean, Brandon Walsh didn’t dance either and he was still Brandon Walsh, right? I was always able to find someone who didn’t want to hora at bat mitzvahs, who didn’t want to electric slide at weddings, and who didn’t want to, uh, do any other kind of dancing at any other public event that included music.

So, I was always happy to sit that one (or eleven, or seventeen) out.

And it’s not because I’m bitchy or shy or introverted or a cold fish or any of your other probable guesses.

It’s that because I dance like Phyllis Nefler doing the Freddy (no really, my children will vouch for me), the control freak in me just shuts my body right down and I am actually physically unable to move. I wish I could just own it and be all…“I’m a terrible dancer, watch me clear a room! Clap along!” 

But no, it’s immediate paralysis instead.

But I’m working on it, I swear.

My goals are lofty, I guess—to just enjoy dancing more than a damn pap smear.