The set of awkward swivels, juts, and pivots uncoordinated men do when required to dance.

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I made an important decision sometime in my 20s, that I would be the kind of man who dances at weddings.

This, in the realm of personal growth, was a pretty big milestone for me.

I think it says a lot about a person – a man in particular – to be able to summon the sufficient courage and abandon to walk into a loud, dextrous throng and dance. Traditionally, my body is more a vehicle to get me from one meal to the next than a rhythm machine. I don’t even dance, really. I just kinda… wiggle. Like a big, silly noodle in glasses.

But so what? Bah to that.

I decided I’d be the kind of man who rolls up his sleeves, takes his girlfriend’s hand, steps onto the dance floor, and boogies.

Plus… who wants to be one of those glowering killjoys who sulks, murmuring in the corner, while their date fidgets around, wishing he’d just shut up and dance with her?

I made the right choice. Clearly.

The result of this decision, of course, is a growing tally of humiliation and injury. Both to myself and those within my flail radius.

For instance… Last year, at a fancy work event, I took to the dance floor and within moments, inadvertently head-butted a coworker in the nose.

Then, reaching out to help him, I knocked a glass out of his hand… sending it to the floor where it exploded into sparkly flechette.

Then I grabbed him by the shoulders, looked him dead in the eyes, and said… “Don’t look at me.”

And then I walked off the dance floor, and left the building without a word.

That’s the guy I decided to be.