In South Africa, the Matric Dance is the undisputed peak of the school social calendar. It’s a night of high-stakes glamour, tuxedos, and floor-length gowns. I went with a childhood friend, Wendy, but my close friend Tony was in a bit of a bind. Tony was the academic titan of our year—frighteningly intelligent and always top of the class—but he was a bit of a nerd and lacked the social "processing power" to find a date.
Feeling for him, I offered up my sister, Jo. She was gorgeous, lovely, and possessed a non-judgmental patience that I knew would be the perfect safety net for Tony.
The night began perfectly. We all looked the part in our formal gear, the atmosphere was electric, and the girls looked spectacular. Then, the music started, and the "disaster" began to unfold on the dance floor.
Tony, whom I had never seen move faster than a brisk walk toward a library, didn’t so much find the rhythm as he did a pace. Being tall and gangly, he didn't sway or step. He jogged. He began to lunge up and down on the spot with giant, athletic strides—arms pumping and legs churning with the mechanical efficiency of a cross-country runner.
Poor Jo was dutifully in tow, trying to maintain some semblance of a dance while Tony treated the disco lights like a finish line. After about an hour of this high-intensity cardio, Jo and I managed a quick sidebar. She was breathless but smiling, her legendary patience still intact.
"My God," she whispered, "he must have clocked up at least ten kilometers by now!"
It was a classic "Tony" moment. He had approached the dance floor with the same relentless focus he applied to his exams, oblivious to the fact that he was the only person in the room treating a slow ballad like a qualifying heat for the Olympics.
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