I was at a wedding reception recently that featured some serious grinding on the dance floor. I was outraged … that I wasn’t involved.
The Grind (the move, not the MTV dance show … where is Eric Nies these days?) used to be a dance floor staple, a good, ol’ reliable fallback move when I was too tired to do The Running Man and too proud to do The Sprinkler. There’s nothing like some pelvis-to-leg mashing to liven up a proper courtship (or ruin a nice dinner).
I recently wondered aloud whether there’s an age cutoff to grinding on the dance floor, to which a colleague replied, “No, in fact it’s even more acceptable the older you get,” particularly if the couple is elderly.
Another pearl of wisdom: “Ninety-eight percent of the grinding you see on the dance floor at a wedding is perfectly acceptable as good fun.” Very scientific.
As I slid closer to the wife on the dance floor and prepared her for the 100th best time of her life, I felt like I had finally outgrown this hormonal reaction to alcohol and music. After all, there were kids around, jumping gleefully and running around in circles – completely oblivious to one couple whose slow, rhythmic thrusts were out of tune with “Chicken Dance,” or whatever was playing at the time. I felt weird, so I paused, gathered my second wind and tried to revive The Cabbage Patch for the new millennium. I’ll save the dry humping for my dog.
And for Hillary Clinton.