Dance some more

There comes a moment in every man’s life when he realises he’s no longer in the middle of the dance circle. I had this realisation over the weekend at the wedding of one of our closest friends. 

It was a religious Orthodox Jewish wedding, which means that the dancing was separate. Men on the one side, women on the other, divided by a wall and a moat, and guarded by a few terrifying post-menopausal women in bulletproof stockings. Not really, but it was too good a line not to use. 

The reason for this context is this: on the women’s side, where I occasionally sneak past without fully averting my eyes, there’s a gentle flow of organised melody and movement. The dances are known and appear to have been choreographed by a retired master from the Bolshoi Ballet. 

The men’s side, meanwhile, could easily be mistaken for the aftermath of a brutal trench war. Guts. Bayonets and Trench Foot. Heads bloodied. But unbowed. 

In essence, the men’s side reflects a series of concentric circles. Fast and furious on the inside. Fast but not furious in the second and third rows. Then progressively slower the further from the centre one moves. The outer circle is represented by the men who would be chosen last in a friendly “pick a team” soccer game. 

The separate dancing is neither here nor there. What is important is the realisation that the journey through the stages of life can be mapped by which circle you occupy. 

In your teens, you’re in the centre ring. Primarily because you’re too stupid to understand the consequences of your actions. You throw yourself into the chaos with the confidence of a man who still believes ligaments are self-repairing. You leap. You scream. You lift people onto shoulders despite possessing neither upper-body strength nor balance. 

In your late 20s, early 30s, you’re still near the middle, but now with purpose. You begin pacing yourself. There is strategy. You dance hard for one song, then recover during a slower number while pretending to look for someone. You’ve become aware of concepts like hydration and tomorrow morning. 

By your 40s, you migrate outward. Not dramatically. You don’t even notice it happening. One day you realise you’re dancing while holding a jacket. Your role becomes less “participant” and more “supporting cast”. You clap more. 

And then comes the outer ring. The ring of wisdom. Of raised cholesterol and diminished muscle mass. 

The men there move minimally, conserving precious energy like astronauts on limited oxygen supply. Their dancing consists primarily of gentle side-to-side motion and occasional administrative nodding. Every now and then one will unexpectedly break into a burst of enthusiasm, alarming nearby family members and requiring immediate medical observation. 

But here’s the thing. The outer ring isn’t sad. In fact, it may be the happiest circle of all. 

The men there are no longer dancing to impress anybody. They’re not trying to prove youth, strength, relevance, or stamina. They dance because they’re still here. Because another child is getting married. Because Jewish history once again refused to end. Because despite everything the world has attempted over thousands of years, there are still Jews dancing badly at weddings. 

Not the perfect synchronised movement from the women’s side, beautiful as it is. But the glorious, sweaty, chaotic, limping persistence of the men’s circles. Generation after generation rotating around the same centre. Young men pulling older men inward. Older men pushing younger men forward. 

Until eventually you find yourself at the edge of the circle, shuffling along with dignity, a slight lower-back spasm, and the understanding that one day your children will look toward the centre while you happily orbit the outside. 

Still part of the dance.