Not long ago, I was riding in the car when “The Loco Motion” (yes, that’s how it’s spelled) came on the radio. I immediately began to feel uncomfortable.  In fact, just listening to that song made me feel embarrassed. I was instantly transported to my friend’s Bat Mitzvah where newly formed adolescents –  including me – attempted to interact both socially and on the dance floor.

That memory led to another one that I thought I had pushed into the farthest reaches of my subconscious: my first slow dance.  If Eskimos have 50 words for “snow,” teenagers should have at least 100 words for “awkward.”

I don’t remember what song was playing – I must have blocked the memory because I was so ill at ease. All I can recall are flashes of sweaty palms, ungainly swaying, and the sensation that I was about to fall off a cliff.

Clumsy, bungling, and graceless barely scratch the surface of how I could describe this encounter. This was not the fault of the boy who so kindly asked me to dance. He was probably trapped in his own private hell of teenage angst. No, the problem was me. I was so uncomfortable in my own skin I felt desperate to escape.

While I may complain about getting older, the truth is, if I were given the chance to turn the clock back 40 years, I would pass.  I have no desire to return to those bungling years when the opposite sex seemed like an alien species and my inner voice was so insistent and full of doubt,  I wanted to tell it to shut the fuck up.

For all my ranting, I must admit that aging has its advantages. I don’t miss that deer-in-the-headlights feeling I had whenever boys were around.  I’m long past the fear of being asked to dance. So come on baby, do the Loco Motion with me!