My date for the Methuen High senior prom was a beautiful sophomore named Terry who liked to dance — an important detail to consider during the next sentence of our story.

The evening went smoothly enough until the point after dinner where most couples awkwardly meander onto the dance floor. I always felt that guys who danced suffered from some sort of mental illness. John Travolta is bat-crap crazy. Michael Jackson was a second-generation loon. Don’t even wind me up about Elvis.

I hadn’t shared my views with Terry pre-prom, so she strode to the writhing/dance after dinner expecting me to follow in her wake. Low on confidence and high on whatever was wafting through the air that night, I remained anchored to the wall I was supporting.
Lanky dudes with poor coordination should stick to safer activities than dancing. I was on the rifle team.

Meanwhile, girls have a natural tendency to sway, swing and sweat and a pleasing visual manner.

In any event, Terry repeatedly asked me to join her on the dance floor. Each time I smiled and reminded her she was doing just fine without me. I wasn’t about to make an ass of myself attempting to dance when I could achieve the same results propped against the wall in my glistening polyester leisure suit.

I was unnecessarily worried about how others would judge me and my dancing. The quotation, “Dance like no one is watching” hadn’t been invented yet and I was still convinced every dude on “American Bandstand” was a sanitarium escapee.

By prom’s end, Terry had given up on me and was enjoying fast and slow dances with a friend of mine. I can’t blame her. Girls just want to have fun. And I was about as much fun as a porcupine at a nudist resort.

Last night, I got my mulligan — a term we miniature golfers use near the windmill for a do-over.

My date for the local Daddy-Daughter Dance was a beautiful 10-year-old sporting a brand-new peach and pastel dress, peach half-vest and ankle-high black boots. Emerita’s long brown hair had some poof to it, thanks to a substance called “mousse.” She and her mom had their nails done the day before. Both ladies’ slender fingers were tipped in light pink with a couple fingers receiving a Valentine heart. Emerita even wore a bit of makeup and lipstick.

Law of the house states that girls can wear makeup at 10 for events like these, as long as they stay out of my KISS makeup.
I’ve happily attended probably a dozen of these Daddy-Daughter Dances, first with older daughter Geni and now with Emerita.

They are as big a deal to the dads as they are to the daughters who go all-out. We dads wear anything from respectable jeans to ties and sport jackets. And we literally swoon over our daughter dates.

Like her sister before her, Emerita generally spots a friend. Off come the shoes and the rest of the event is girls chasing each other around the venue squealing until crystal shatters. But last night was a new location for Team Whipple.

After scanning the gymnasium for a sign of a friend, Emerita looked up at me and said, “It’s OK that I don’t have any friends here. I have you.”

And there was my mulligan!

This time I would not sit on the sidelines and drag my young date into insecurity with me.

Last night I danced like no one was watching. My faster moves were compared to a grand mal seizure. One bystander approached our flail zone without a dance partner just to get a better view of what I like to call “Dance without Rhythm” and “Tazed Baboon.” Patent pending.

My giggling daughter reminded me during and after every song just how embarrassing the Daddyo Show was, but those messages were lost in laughter as I continued my “boogying of the damned” ensemble.

My Cha Cha Slide was always 45 to 90 degrees off-course. When the singer instructed, “Slide to the left” I never knew if he meant HIS left or MY left. Three times I careened into a neighboring dad’s cha-cha zone.

I brought out the Batusi — the hilarious danced performed by the original Batman. I whipped out the flying thumbs/disjointed twitches moves of “Seinfeld’s” Elaine Benes.

I Twist-ed like we did last summer. Mid-Twist I felt my appendix wrap around my spine tetherball style. No bother, I’ll look into it next summer. I spun Emerita and she spun me back. She perched atop my brown Sketchers during slow dances and we laughed at our ridiculously slow rotational speed.

We changed the lyrics to every song. Most had bathroom references, but I’m not opposed to the cheap laughs. I knew a few of the songs, which really doesn’t matter when all your moves get weirder than the spin before.

We gyrated, sang and spelled out the Y-M-C-A with our arms like it was some kind of anthem. We thrashed through “Stayin’ Alive” and I performed the knees-up waltz during “Cotton Eye Joe” while Emerita danced with an innate knowledge of redneck ballads.
I sweated like it was football practice in August.

Two and a half hours in, we agreed we had run out of steam. The time had come to conclude our dance marathon and stop at the grocery store on the way home for a Haagen-Dazs nightcap.

No one had commented on our performances. Just as no one would have commented at the Methuen High prom decades ago. Ah, we live and learn.

No time to waste pondering. The spring “Bunny Hop” is just weeks away and I’ve got hoppy moves just waiting to bound across the dance floor.