Footloose and dancy knee

Yes, "dancy" is a word. Look it up.

I survived the wedding, mostly in one piece. Actually it wasn't so bad. When my parents and I arrived at the hotel in downtown Wilmington, the (white) groom was already aboard his (white) horse outside and ready to ceremoniously work his way to the side entrance, surrounded by his family and other well-wishers. There was some early dancing and ground-level fireworks, while I hid behind the camera. The groom was led inside by a bilingual officiant who seemed a little full of himself, and then we all entered the large room where the wedding ceremony was to take place.

A while later, once the officiant has explained the process at length to the multicultural audience, the bride entered, flanked by our mutual aunt and uncle (as her parents have already taken their places on the wedding stage) and her bridesmaids. For most of the ceremony she remained veiled and seated across from the groom. I took many pictures of the process that I'll have to manipulate digitally because of the lousy lighting.

There was a two-hour-plus break between the wedding and the reception, which was not enough time to go to my cousin's house 30 minutes each way and get any meaningful rest, so my parents and I lounged in the couches on the hallway. Napping took place. Loud, obnoxious napping. (I make no apologies.)

The day bounced back strongly with the reception. It's an open bar, which can be a gift and a curse when you're surrounded by family. The dinner was a major step up from the lackluster offerings earlier in the day. And, sweet goodness, they had a chocolate fountain with strawberries, pretzels, and Oreos for dipping. I decided then and there that I would have to provide the same feature at my wedding, and maybe honeymoon.

Then there was the dancing. My experience in this has been limited but wildly erratic. I have been the wallflower that refuses to budge, even when asked nicely. (I never went to my high school prom, and yet I've never regretted that.) More recently I've visited the other end of the spectrum, dancing without a care in the world for what others think, nor where their feet might be. This attitude served me well in a wedding I attended last year, but some would say a little too well, so this time I toned it down somewhat. And then one of my cousins requested "Footloose."

Here's the problem with "Footloose." First, there's the whole mad attempt to be a male Rockette, which can be performed by capable professionals like the ones above, but rarely is done successfully by amateurs. My mother -- who was in a rare dancing mood, and I didn't want to discourage her -- and I tried to duplicate this with limited results. Second, and more importantly, there's my psychological tendency to become the center of attention during that climactic moment shortly after the line "Now take a hold of your soul." You know what I mean.

So I slid across the floor, right into the center of a group of people. It looked great. It felt... not so great. I tried to get up but stumbled. I laughed it off, then tried again to stand up, and again found that I couldn't. I improvised a fake slippage, removed my shoes, and slinked off the dance floor. Soon I discovered two things: (1) my suit's pants have ripped holes where my knees made contact with the floor; and (2) my right knee really, really hurts. I've managed to impress the cute blonde guest who could be Kristen Bell's older sister, but at what cost? Later on she gives me a gesture of appreciation which is, quite unfortunately, more "Rock on!" than "Here's my number." And then a sad realization hits me:

I've been injured while rocking out to Kenny Loggins.