Matt, Brad, and Daphne struggle through the snow in search of a place to dance.

It’s possible to graduate from the education system in this country without learning several essential life skills. They include the ability to hold a conversation for at least ten minutes with someone you’ve just met, the ability to file a tax return, and the ability to turn a polished wooden floor into a dance party.

That last one is an arena where we Sundquists happen to excel.

Last Saturday night, my brother Matt joined my friends and me on our subway ride downtown to go out dancing. This is what we do every Saturday night: Dance. We are not good dancers, mind you, but fun dancers. The kind of people you want as cousins at your wedding. We have several favorite spots around DC, but on this particular evening most of the city was shut down by the record snowfall earlier in the day. We traipsed through ten blocks of snow covered sidewalks before we finally found one place that had braved the storm. When we kicked the snow off our boots and walked in, however, we were disappointed to find the dance floor covered with tables and chairs. What’s more, there was a group of people eating dinner at one of the tables.

It was hopeless. We would never find a place to dance. Or, at least, that’s what I thought.

Fortunately, we had Matt with us. He’s what you would call an optimist, a real glass is half-full type person. “Let’s start a dance party,” said Matt. I asked him where we would be holding this dance party, and he suggested the space between the rows of tables. It seemed like the chances of this plan resulting in awkwardness (which is exactly the opposite of a dance party) were quite high. On the other hand, there was good music playing, and there appeared to be a bachelorette party on the upper level at the bar. In my experience, convincing a bachelorette party to start dancing is about as difficult as persuading a dog to chase a squirrel, particularly if the music includes “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” or anything early Madonna. So I agreed to give the dance party a chance.

let’s get it started in hee, let’s get it started in ha

As soon as Matt and I started dancing, two girls materialized, and within about eleven more seconds a team of employees had moved the tables, chairs, and even the people sitting at them to another room. By the end of the song, the dance floor was packed.

When I dance, I wait for a girl to approach me rather than vice-versa because in my economy, the cost of rejection is always too high. Unlike most guys, however, my friends and I have a lot of fun, and don’t mind looking stupid, when dancing. This tends to attract girls on its own. Sure enough, after a few minutes, an attractive blonde grabbed my hand.

We talked and danced for a couple songs, and then she said, “You’re a really good dancer even though you only have one leg.”  Although she seemed to intend it as a sincere compliment, it was a pointedly backhanded one, the equivalent of me saying to her, “You’re really smart even though you’re blonde.”

I responded with a smirk. “Thanks,” I said sarcastically.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she said. “Really, I didn’t even notice that you’re missing a leg.”

This comment, as Matt would point out the next day, is much like when white people say, “I don’t see color. In fact, I have one friend who’s black.” That they say it means they do notice. It’s that peculiar class of statement whose utterance negates itself, like “I am the most humble person in the entire world” or “I am a deaf mute.” Speaking the words makes them untrue.

I looked at the blonde, incredulous. She backtracked, or rather, dug herself further into her hole.

“I mean, obviously I noticed, but look, I’m still totally willing to dance with you even though you’re handicapped.”

That she would say this in the first place was mildly offensive, but that she seemed to think her stance on the issue demonstrated a rare level of progressiveness and tolerance was absurd. It would be like me bragging to her, “I personally think it’s great you have the right to vote even though you are a woman.”

I should’ve exited the conversation at this point, of course. As it was, I stood there rationalizing that walking away “on principle” would be contrary to the spirit of relationships because a relationship is built on compromise. You tolerate, say, your girlfriend’s tendency to turn off the air conditioning to save on her electric bill, or her annoying need to discuss her feelings at frequent intervals, because the net benefits of your relationship are more significant than the small sacrifices you make to keep it alive.

This dance party, I decided, was no different. I had a fun, pretty girl to dance with, and that to me is a tremendously affirming, almost euphoric experience. The net benefits of the relationship, therefore, were emotionally positive despite her patronizing. So I danced with her until the lights came on and we said our goodbyes.

The next evening, at our weekend debrief dinner at Chipotle, Matt told my friends and me that he had spoken to the blonde at one point the night before. She had told him she was on a date with someone else, but that she preferred dancing with the handicapped boy. “She was on a date?” I exclaimed. “If I had known that, I would’ve ditched her!” I mean, come on. A guy’s got to have standards.