God blessed me with a few talents. Dancing is not one of them. That’s why no dance floor ever hosted my rhythmless limbs without plenty of liquid encouragement. It also helped if most, if not all, my compatriots on the dance floor were also similarly motivated. That way, hopping was considered as much as an accepted step as the Shag, shifting my shoulders back and forth to the beat was admirable, and any attempt at the Macarena was greatly appreciated.

Thankfully, it had been a while since I had to subject anyone to my moves, and I’m even more thankful I haven’t had to subject my body to that type of encouragement. But that all changed last weekend, with a few important twists.

I had two hot dates to a dance, and dancing was not optional. I couldn’t hide against a wall with my buddies, and there was no way I could say no to my dates even if my idea of the Electric Slide was the static electricity build–up from a trip down the plastic twirly–tube at the McDonald’s Playland. The pièce de résistance was that the strongest beverage at this little shindig was lemonade.

But that didn’t seem to matter to me or the other men in attendance because it was a father/daughter dance. The most intoxicating thing there was the site of adoring little girls in their best dresses staring lovingly at their proud fathers.

My two dates were my two daughters, both of whom looked a far cry from the rug rats who used to come bouncing up to me in their fairy wings and pink feather boas when I’d come home from work. When I first got a glimpse of them in their new dresses, they looked like they should have been waiting on some pimply–faced boys in rented tuxedos with corsages and their daddies’ borrowed SUVs…not me. The shock was enough to send me looking for something other than lemonade, or, at least, make sure my chainsaw was in working order when those pimply–faced boys do eventually come calling.

One look at my daughters, and I realized dancing was the least of my problems. Pretty soon I’ll have to worry about some little punks’ dance moves and not my own. That may have been the motivation for all the dads in attendance, because I’ve never seen more men gleefully doing the twist and spelling out Y.M.C.A. when the only mind–altering substance available was the inch–thick icing served on the peti fours.

The most amazing part of the entire evening was that even after witnessing their dear ol’ dad butcher the Macarena and show he had the dance moves of a freshly birthed giraffe, my daughters still loved me. In fact, I think they loved me more.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get that same kind of admiration again, but I do know that’s the most fun I’ve ever had dancing, and this time I hope the hangover lasts forever.