You still should be dancin’—yeah!

“They shoot horses, don’t they?” I was panting heavily as I pushed the pause button on the remote control and my daughters looked bewildered. Obviously, my reference to the 1969 movie where Jane Fonda nearly dances herself to death during a marathon escaped them.

My frustration was over my inability to perform to the 2010 family Christmas gift: Xbox 360’s Dance Central. After we’d ogled our 26-year-old daughter leap to the center of the carpet and get down in ways with which I wasn’t familiar but was entirely impressed, it had been my turn. I’d scrolled the soundtrack list in confusion: Couldn’t I simply sway back and forth and make little circles with my hands to The Supremes, twirl to the Temptations, or twist a la Chubby Checker? These artists and their accompanying hits were as foreign as an Eastern European language. The last time I’d tried to master a new dance routine, it had been when the girls were in high school and had decided to teach their mother Michael Jackson’s Moonwalk. I’d given it my all, but sadly come away after hours of rehearsal with a pitiful performance—and paralyzing shin splints.

Still, I would have opted for MJ over the selection choice now before me: Who is Beenie Man? Pitbull? I knew better than to even try something titled “Drop it Like It’s Hot,” and no one, not even my own husband, would need to reminisce about the holiday with the memory of Mom attempting “Rump Shaker.”

I gasped to a few bars of Lady Gaga, gave “Teach Me How to Jerk” a stab, erroneously thinking that Audio Push (whoever that is) meant the Jerk I used to do. Ultimately, for our family competition, I chose The Commodores’ “Brick House,” since at the very least I recognized it. Kate had already locked in a stellar score on level three following the lead of some gansta ripping out “Funky Town.”

“This is a fabulous workout!” An exercise aficionado, she loved nothing more than another way to sweat away the holiday feasting. Her older sister Clary, too petite for the camera to note her normal movements, flailed dramatically to “Poker Face,” and finished with a respecatble total. Their father flat out refused.

“I couldn’t do this to save my life!” He left the room, and then re-emerged only when Kate beckoned.

“Daddy! Come see! Mom’s bustin’ a move!”

I was bustin’ something all right. The instructor/animated kid with a sweatshirt hood pulled down to his lips offered words of encouragement—syllables I failed to recognize until my daughters translated. When had I lost track of hip, except in conversations about replacement surgery? As hard as I worked, and as much as every muscle in my body trembled, my numbers came in too low to even advance to the next level, called “Perform.” Just as well.

But wait a minute! Hadn’t I been the one who, at seventeen, dragged a date to the Hollywood studio where "Shebang" (our local version of Dick Clarke’s American Bandstand) was filmed? And, much to the horror of said date, weren’t we featured on the platform performing for the TV audience (albeit failing) the Frug? Pictures of me in high school recorded me wearing my uniform—the sweatshirt that read "Live to Dance and Dance to Live." I might be flirting with sixty, but sixteen still beat strong in this aging heart. Why not on the dance floor?

Fortified by a large cup of coffee, I demanded a rematch. This time I knew what to expect from my heretofore-uncooperative limbs. Now I anticipated every move of the Avatar, stayed focused, got my rhythm, and—graduated to the second level! The routine was more challenging but conquerable, and I finished—not the winner after three rounds, but not that far behind her. Exhausted and sucking in breaths like a strangling bass, despite having lived through the dance, I concurred with my husband: I might be too old for this.

Kate just called to tell me that XBox has just come out with "The Experience."

“It’s all Michael Jackson!” She shrieked into the phone. "I'm getting it for you for Mother's Day!"

Maybe I'll revisit the Moonwalk.