They tell you that life is like a box of chocolates,
but it seems to you that life is really more like
the awkward kind of waltz you’d attempt
at a school dance, or maybe at your scary wild-eyed cousin’s
wedding, when one of the pretty bridesmaids comes
and stands next to you, and your parents won’t leave
you alone until you dance with her. And the only time
you’ve ever tried to waltz was the last time your
parents dragged you a wedding, so you take
her hand and try to remember what your feet
are supposed to be doing, but you trip over
the hem of her dress and step on her
toes and step on your own toes and apologize until you’re
blue in the face and red in the cheeks and green
at the gills. One 3/4 time signature later,
she thanks you for the dance and runs (limps) off
to rest her feet and cackle with her girlfriends
about your inability to move to any discernible
rhythm. Your parents pat your back and your mother
insists you’ll learn to count to three one of these
times, but you can hear them snicker at you
when you go to sit down at one of the tables covered
in champagne flutes and sparkling cider. “Next up,”
the loudspeaker announces, “grab your sweetie for a tango!”
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