ADVICE:“REMEMBER THAT THERE’S NOT A PERSON IN THE WORLD WITHOUT A PROBLEM”

CAB #: 5084

Some people are singers. Some people are dancers. Some people are both. And let’s not forget those ever-allusive triple threats, like JT and JLo and LiLo (clearly in her “Mean Girls” days). Then there’s me. My idea of a triple threat consists of Long Islands and Sliders and Beers (oh my). I am not a singer or dancer – and I put extreme emphasis on the ‘not a dancer’ part. With the exception of The Carlton Dance – and let’s face it, is this really something I should be so quick to admit? – I am rhythmically impaired.

I was made aware of my awesomely bad dance skills by The Obscenely Overconfident Loudmouth (whom I will affectionately call TOOL) my freshman year of college. I met TOOL in St. Thomas at a club one night, where we proceeded to spring break-it-down on the dancefloor…until TOOL blurted out, “I can’t dance with you anymore because you’re not good.” Our courtship took an abrupt halt. He was no Fred Astaire – in fact, he was a scruffy faced, popped-collared TOOL – but his comment stung and has stuck with me.

I was reminded of my dancing phobia after recently hearing a story about a man who was at his daughter’s wedding. He spent the entire night dancing with his wife and his children and his grandchildren as if he had no care in the world. He died two days later. At the wedding, the man knew he was seriously ill, but he did not want his family’s tears or pity – he wanted to enjoy the time he had left with them.

Stories like these make me re-evaluate my “problems.” Sure, I may look like a cross between Elaine Benes and Heathcliff Huxtable – sans the “wall of hair” and multi-colored sweaters – when I bust out my moves, but is this really something to get upset about? Sure, I get disappointed when Boy of the Week just isn’t that into me, or doesn’t call when he says he’s going to call or dumps me on national television six weeks after proposing to me and, on the same night, re-kindles his romance with runner-up chick, but it’s not the end of the world, right? Okay, so that last one wasn’t me – that was Melissa, the winner (ha) of this season’s “The Bachelor.” I’m making a point though – Melissa, with the tan skin and petite figure and gleaming smile, might have appeared to have it all – the looks, the fiancé, the rock (prior to having her fiancé re-nig the proposal and take back the rock with Chris Harrison courtside for the play-by-play), but her life obviously isn’t perfect. Life has its kinks for the Melissas and the Madonnas and the Deannas (Pappas, of course) – even for the spandex-clad girls at the gym who manage to look mysteriously unwinded after a 45-minute cardio workout. Everyone’s got issues, whether we see them or not.

When you think about it, we’re here for the blink of an eye, so we might as well enjoy it. Even if you don’t have the perfect apartment or you find yourself panting after 30 minutes on the elliptical or you get burned by TOOL. Might as well dance…if for no other reason than being alive.

Cabbie #5084, may I have this dance?

D