How To Survive The Hora

.... looks nothing like this.

The creaky bones, the swollen feet, the mangled fingers, the sore everything.  What happened?  Oh, right.  I danced the Hora last night, and lived to tell the tale.  When the Hora became an Olympic event, I can't tell you, but it's a brutal, unforgiving dance, a collision of body parts and directional challenges.   There's a lot of screaming, a lot of "go that way, not that way, let go of my hand, you're crushing my fingers."  The question best left unanswered:  "How many times are you going to step on my toe?" There's no accurate estimate.  Last night, I stopped counting after 25, right before I hobbled away and numbed the pain with champagne.  And then there's the hoisting of the Bar Mitzvah boy on top of a chair, followed by his parents, siblings and anyone else willing to let an assembly of weak backs determine whether they walk out of the party in one piece, or exit via ambulance.  "Look out for the chandelier," I yelled, watching keppy after keppy come "this close" to traumatic head wounds.  Not that anyone heard me.  When did the humble Hora spin out of control?  When did it go from being a fun, celebratory gravevine of matzel tov, to a competitive blood sport, a triathlon of oy veysmere?  I'm not sure exactly, but I blame the deejays. They haven't figured out how to transition smoothly from "The Harlem Shake" to the Hora, and I doubt they ever will.  Add a tiny dance floor to the mix and it really gets dicey.  So, how to survive the Hora?  Sit it out. Don't do it.  Stand in the back.  Bring props, if necessary.  Removable leg casts.  A walker, maybe.  A note from your doctor.  "Can't dance the Hora.  Don't ask her."  Or, go ahead and dance the Hora.   Go ahead and risk your life.  Just don't say the SJG didn't warn you.