There’s a certain drink prerequisite that must prelude dancing. I wish I could be someone that doesn’t need to drink in order to shake that ass, but there’s no gyration without libation. Even though I love to dance, I’m not what you’d call a good dancer. I know this, but I have to numb my psyche into forgetting it, so I can let the rest of the world know it too. I trick my body into believing everyone’s as blind as I am after I’ve plied it with copious amounts of alcohol.

However, there are times when I have no choice but to get on the dance floor too early. I’ve only gotten through three cocktails when an over-eager friend, who has a much lower tolerance for alcohol, suddenly drags me on the floor. Other friends start cheering and clapping while she pulls my arm and spills my drink. Now I’m faced with a difficult decision: do I chicken out or do I suck it up? Would I rather be a spoilsport or a bad dancer? This is usually when “The Microwave” makes an appearance, and I suddenly become both.

Most people who can’t dance hide their ineptitude with silly dances like The Sprinkler or The Shopping Cart. My big hit is The Microwave, a simulated dance I created in college. It involves putting something into a fake microwave, pushing the buttons, waiting with my arms crossed while it heats up, checking my watch, smiling enthusiastically when its finished, and finally, retrieving the food (ouch, its hot!). My feet keep the beat the whole time my arms are waiting and retrieving. The Microwave always gets a few laughs, but they wear out quickly. If you’ve seen the dance once, it’s not very funny again.

I think that’s why I like dance routines like the Electric Slide and the Macarana. I never have to worry about how I’m dancing. I just have to follow everyone else. Dancing to 80’s music is especially easy since it’s just one big dance routine, a defined set of dances that came and went with the decade. I mix in the moonwalk, the running man and the cabbage patch. Stepping from side to side while snapping my fingers isn’t bad either. Not too much to mess up there. I don’t have to worry about what my arms are doing or what my hips are doing or what kind of fucked-up expression I may be making.

That’s my biggest fear: what my face is doing while my body’s busy dancing. Does my expression indicate the concentration I’m using to coordinate my limbs? Do I look like I’m trying to figure out the phone bill in my head? Are my lips pursed in a wannabe-model way? Am I wearing a big goofy grin because my drunken mouth can no longer form anything else? As the only solution, I’ve found that long hair can be a wonderful hiding mechanism. I can gnash my teeth in anxiety without anyone seeing.

Last time I went dancing, I came out of my hair to find my friend doing The Microwave. Could it be? Maybe I have furthered society with this new move. Maybe I’m really a good dancer and I’ve just been too hard on myself. As I watched her, it dawned on me. The only thing worse than doing The Microwave is watching someone else do it.