I did the stanky leg, nae nae, soulja boy, and everything in between this past Saturday night. It was my friend’s birthday and we shook it out to every song the DJ put on.

When I was 11, I wrote an essay about why I thought dancing was stupid.

I broke down the inanity of bodily movements to music, isolating and criticizing each limb, shaking my 11 year old head at the pointlessness of this cult-like behaviour. At school dances I would migrate to the peripheries of the crowd, seeking others to pity da fools with.

If memory recalls, I got a good grade and a personal seal of approval from Mrs Craig-Cunningham.

It wasn’t until second year university that I embraced losing myself to music. It’s precisely revelling in the pointlessness of it that makes dancing so great – it’s a celebration of just being, of not having a care in the world, and the perfect excuse to scream Gaga lyrics at the top of your lungs.

People I’m not close with are often surprised when I break out into mini dances (it’s like they actually buy the professionalism I sell on my Facebook and social media sites!?). To me it’s an expression of “I don’t give a fuckkk” – because honestly, who actually gives a fuck while they’re dancing?

11 year-old-me would’ve been shocked (and embarrassed). But then again, 11-year-old me couldn’t have possibly imagined how far 23 year-old me would stray from the conventional path my family had paved.



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