The grass was wet. I have never forgotten that detail. I remember it very plainly. At a graduation party (for fifth graders) that I went to four years and change ago, the grass was wet and I refused to dance. I’ve always felt stupid whenever I tried to. I’m just uptight, everything is alright baby.

But seriously. I’m self conscious. If you made me list five things about me, in order of importance, I would tell you I’m scared, I’m right-armed, I’m male, I’m self conscious, I’m an emotional time bomb. It’s that important.

I hid in the woods behind the girl’s house. All the kids found me. I ran. I’ve always been quick, fast as hell. They didn’t catch me. They left me alone for a little while. A little bit later, one of the girls came up to me and said, "Tim, come dance with me."

I can’t believe I haven’t come back to that moment as an important one in my life. It might be the second or third time I’ve thought on it since it happened. I was asked to dance, and I thought for a moment that I would say yes because she was a girl and though I’m almost positive she thought it was only shyness and nothing like a elementary school crush, I was asked to dance.

But then the cowardly self conscious boy in me snapped back in control and I remember saying, "I can’t."

Part of that is just a way of saying no. But even more is my horrible fear and dislike of things that I’m not automatically good at. To this day, I have always tried to avoid the things I’m bad at. I hate doing something and showing no talent for it. And I thank God for making me good at a lot of things, because otherwise I wouldn’t do anything. But I’ve never been good at dancing. I literally couldn’t dance.

I felt bad about that for a while. I did. I think she just wanted me to be a little bit happier, a little bit more real, and I took it and I threw it back in her face. I’ve glossed that over in my mind, but that’s what it was. I haven’t quite forgiven myself for that yet.

That was pretty much the last attempt. I watched people dance and just hang around. It was a nice party. But I was a raincloud, storming on the already soaked grass.

It’s happened several times. 8th Grade Picnic, thrice. Homecoming Dance last year, at least ten times. All of them girls I would give half of my life for who asked me to. And my answers have gotten more creative over the years. I’ve evolved from "I can’t" to "I’m a skinny white boy from the suburbs, I can’t dance," to giving freaking syllogisms that logically prove that I can’t dance, I’m sorry.

I’m going to a Sweet 16. The girl who’s having it has told me she’s going to make me dance. I’ve used all three of my excuses, and I feel like shit about it. She wants me to loosen up and have fun, and I’m letting it bounce off me. But when the day comes, and she says, "Dance, Tim," what do I do? My pride and my self-consciousness have always gotten in the way. I want to please her. I don’t want to blemish her party.

How can I tell her that just talking with her is like a dream I don’t want to wake from when I’m not willing to put away my pride for her?

At the end of that fifth-grade party, the hostess’s father came to me and said, "I never danced when I was young either. But now I wish I had, and I can’t now. I’m not a kid anymore."

I’m not going to be a teenager forever, I’m not immortal, I’m not invincible. But damn it, I’ll be regretful forever.

–I’m not Engimatic anymore.