so come on, and bring your juke box money

I'm a much better dancer in my head than I am on my feet. My brain knows exactly what my body should be doing in accordance to any given beat, but there is some sort of nueron malfunction when the time comes for my limbs to execute on the orders given by the brain. The result is often catastrophic.
"Are you drunk?" Stephen asked while we danced at a wedding reception. I thought it an absurd question at the time, since I've been sober for 25 years. However I later saw a video of the evening and understood his query. My attempts to shake my booty looked more like the swaying of a town drunkard upon leaving the bar.
I started dancing in the living room and Ollie became extremely upset. He growled and barked his angriest bark and started attacking my feet. As soon as I stopped the dancing, he stopped the barking and went back to chewing a stick.
From what I can tell, my body trying to dance looks something like a tree trunk with four cooked spaghetti noodles attached, moving independently of each other with no particular rhyme or reason.
I guess I could blame my roots. The Scandanavians aren't really known for getting their groove on, cutting a rug, shakin what their mamas gave em, or what have you. More for knitting mittens and baking streusel. That never did my any favors at the Friday night High School dances.
Even slow dancing was often more disasterous than not. It was during "My Heart Will Go On" while my arms were draped over some poor boys shoulders that my nose started pouring blood. It was the most dramatic nose bleed Timpview High had ever seen. Blood all over me, all over the floor, and probably all over my dancung oartner. A janitor rushed me away to a room with a cold compress and surprisingly comfortable chair. The number of boys wanting to dance with me reduced dramatically after that evening.