So, the other day, my dad came home unexpectedly to find me bobbing my posterior to a song whose name I’d rather not say. Before I go any further, my lawyers have advised me that insanity is my best defense. But because they do not have my creative genius, I have decided to go with ‘possession by unknown forces’ or- in the unlikely event that does not work- ‘doing it ironically’. Pretty convincing, I know.
So, anyway, if I may back pedal a bit, I had been sitting down innocently, minding my own business, when that treacherous song began to play. I swear I do not make it a habit to listen to Beyoncé- ah, damn it; I was trying not to reveal that. My point, in any case, is that I am completely unfamiliar with her work (I have it on good authority, though, that she is an incredible dancer. Supposedly.) Thus, I was equally surprised when the song began to play and I found myself on my feet, singing along as though I had helped write it.
And then it got to the chorus, and the little restraint I had left vanished in a puff of smoke. This is where my explanation of possession will gain its credibility. The cold, clammy hands of insanity snaked their way up my spine and commanded me to dance. So dance I did. I pulled my shorts up from my knees. I planted a grimace on my face- this, I have learned, is absolutely necessary in dancing to most music. Then I initiated a graceful sequence of hip movements that would end with me shaking that thing my mother gave me. I rotated it, I bobbed it up and down and then I shook it, all in tune and while singing along. It was at the point where I was supposed to swish my hair back and throw a copulatory glance at the camera when a cold draft alerted me that I had an audience.
All credit to me, I did not react immediately. In my head, I turned, fled to the nearest cliff and threw myself off it. But in reality, I straightened my back and flicked some wayward dirt from my shoulder. Then I shot a cautious glance at my dad. He was standing transfixed in the doorway, a ghost of a smile teasing the corner of his lips. I decided to take the offensive. It was uncommon knowledge that I was the king of staring contests. So I turned the intensity of my gaze to the old man; challenging him, daring him to say anything. Presently, he caved. He allowed the smile to flicker across his face, then he turned and went to raid the fridge instead.
It has not been brought up since. I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that I am yet to hear the end of it. It is all I can hope for, therefore, that when the incident is brought up, I will have armed myself sufficiently in the area of denials and excuses. Otherwise I might just have to blackmail him with the information that I know which nickname he has designated for my mother.