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This Blerd Dances Alone

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I broke one of my general rules last weekend, and went to a nightclub. But it's different when it's a Latin nightclub, right?

A friend asked me to go, so there I was, dancing to salsa, bachata and reggaeton. 

The club is hot. The women are hot. The men are hot.


And then there's me, rocking my black rugby shirt and blue jeans.

I love to dance. Putting my body in thrall to rhythm makes me smile. There's nothing like the fellowship forged in expressing the body together.

Dancing also tends to make me incredibly self-conscious, nervous, dreadful, and sometimes lonely.

Even for a well-adjusted nerd such as myself, there always are sore spots that bring back the old familial feelings of alienation, awkwardness and loneliness. Dancing is one of those for me. Because dancing takes a certain amount of cool, right? And, oh yeah, nerds aren't cool.


I'm not cool. I don't even live close to cool. So, for a long time, I felt like I couldn't dance.

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