I was dancing in front of a mirror a few years ago (alone, at home thank the Lord) when I had a stunning realization — I can’t dance anymore. I qualify the statement with an “anymore” because there was a time, self-deluded or not, during my freshman and sophomore years of college, when I thought I could actually dance. But I threw down a couple of moves on myself and realized I looked like I was jackhammering a sidewalk. I saw in myself what I’d seen in countless old men with syncopated hips at millions of weddings over the years, an eager face and an overbite and a body that looked like an unbalanced washing machine. I think this cartoon is born of my loss of dance innocence.
