You take a step as if to walk away, but -- what's this? Your leg no longer belongs to you, it is a slave to the beat. It swings and stomps effortlessly to the music. You use your hands to control it, to overpower it, but it's too late. It's contagious. A full-body pandemic. The other leg is infected now. There is no quarantine, the CDC has collapsed, and soon your whole body is a cyclone of sickly rhythm that catches and collides with everything in its path, specifically other dancers. "Hey" and "Watch it," they yell. This is going really well.
The crowd parts wherever you move and surges to fill the absences you leave, like seas around a sacred staff, your sacred staff, the one you're plunging through the air on every 16th note, deep into the invisible butts of hypothetically consensual partners. Although your eyes are clenched for the sake of authenticity, you already know the other wedding guests are watching and nodding, like, "Yeah, we get it. We are following your narrative, new guy."
Kick, spin, thrust, thrust, jump, the spli- the sentiment of the splits. Ten thousand hours. That's what they say it takes for perfection. Ten thousand hours or four weddings in a single summer. They are always saying that. This isn't a hobby, it's a way of life. It has to be to get this good. You know exactly how many A Little Bit Softer Nows are in "Shout." You always remember the So Goods in "Sweet Caroline." Your original translation of "99 Luftballoons" is unparalleled in sentiment. The crowd is ravenous, screaming at you, furious that they lived all these years having never seen real magic before now.