STRANGER THAN FICTION: NIGHTCLUB DANCING TOUGH ON THEY RHYTHM IMPAIRED

Sometimes it's better to abandon your partner and get out of the way.

When we were dating, I spent the better part of two years convincing The Other Half that going to nightclubs was a fun activity.

He'd grown up a lot like most Midwestern boys: hating high school, working a job on weekends to pay for his used Monte Carlo and collecting "Alabama" 45s. And in the words of the bard, his momma don't dance and his daddy don't rock 'n' roll.

His momma and daddy DO listen to country music, though. And I don't mean the Garth Brooks crossover stuff. I mean the my-man-left-me-and-my-chil'-for-a-used-pickup-truck-so-I-bought-my-daughter-a-red-dress-and-pimped-her stuff.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

My family was different. Before my mother remarried in 1980, she was like Disco Single Mom. She'd twisted her way through the '60s and hustled into the '70s. She had her fifth child in 1983, so breakdancing was out of the question. It's tough to moonwalk while breast feeding.

Thus, my sisters and I were instilled with a healthy sense of rhythm and an unshakable love for Barry Manilow, despite the fact that he's become a musical punchline.

Unfortunately, by the time I turned Mr. Half into a fellow dance lover, I had turned myself into Moby Dick. I look like the missing white Weathergirl. Remember the plus-sized Weathergirls? They sang, "It's Raining Men." That's an inspirational song that I don't mind shaking my sizable shimmy to at home, but going to a nightclub full of slender, spandex-clad hoochie mommas is another matter entirely.

But last weekend, with 10 friends pressuring me to get up and dance, I caved. We headed into the world of loud, thumping music, short skirts and adult beverages I once knew and loved.

The down side was a wall of mirrors adjoining the dance floor which let me see every move I made. No kidding -- my bootie stopped moving a full 30 seconds after I did. I also experienced a sweat-induced hair collapse and got doused with beer.

Why do people carry beer onto the dance floor? Yes, a bottle of beer does cost upwards of $2 at most clubs. But is it really SO valuable that you'd want to take it into a crowd of people who are flinging their extremities in various directions? Your stain removal bill is going to cost more than two lousy bucks!

My buddy Norm invited me to dance first. Norm is a very enthusiastic dancer. By enthusiastic, I mean that it's best his partner just back away slowly and sit down before she gets hurt. He bends over slightly, flails his arms and does kind of a box step with no regard to the beat of the music. However, the faster the music, the faster the box step.

It's tough to be doing the little back-and-forth movement so popular on crowded dance floors while your partner has some sort of bizarre seizure. Everyone's staring at you, pitying you, wondering exactly how desperate you had to be to get up and dance with THAT nut.

I faked a sprained ankle and hobbled back to my seat. But that didn't stop my partner. Oh no. He just kept right on going until everyone stopped dancing and formed a circle around him. It wasn't one of those circles like on "Footloose" where everyone admires a dancer's skill. It was more like a circle where the police come and yell, "Move along! There's nothing to see here!"

Luckily, a quick-thinking young woman in a see-through crop top invited him to buy her a drink. He was off the floor in two seconds flat.

Thank goodness Mr. Half just does what I like to call the Typical White Person Dance, and he performs it with a fair amount of rhythm. To do the TWPD, stand with your feet shoulder width apart. Slide your right foot to the right, then follow with your left foot. Then slide your left foot to the left and follow with the right foot. At the same time, bend your elbows so that your hands are near each other. Move your hands up and down while snapping your fingers.

Repeat 100,002 times or until the song ends.

My New Year's resolution is to shed a few (hundred) pounds, so maybe I'll be successful and go out dancing when my thighs don't meet people that I don't.

And then I can stop doing the TWPD and start doing the Lambada: The Forbidden Dance!

Heidi Nieland is Southeast Missourian staff member, who now lives in Pensacola, Fla.