The older my children get, the harder it is to keep them a part of Christmas and the old traditions. Our youngest daughter is on a trip, which includes texting photos of Bangkok nightclubs with comments like, “Look at the size of THIS joint, dude!” The middle son flies off to his girlfriend's house on Boxing Day. The oldest has added a festive dog care shift to her duties at the animal hospital, so she will be present for only a few hours on Christmas Day. We also had a little fight on the 23rd and we weren't really talking.
It would be difficult to make Christmas on the 24th memorable. But he had a plan. And that plan was Just Dance 2025.
Back then, I was too self-conscious to play the early incarnations of dance games, but I marveled at those lithe athletes who walked around London's Trocadero like colossi, drawing adoring crowds with their Dance Dance Revolution skills.
Later, Dancing Stage MegaMix was installed on the PS2 in what I used to call my basement gym. The treadmill and bike barely touched, but every day he jumped on the mat, becoming what I'm sure was the best dancer for The Cure's The Love Cats of the mid-2000s.
This year's Christmas Day plan was as follows: a nice, leisurely breakfast. Prepare the chunks for the spectacular mushroom Wellington I'm making as a peace offering to my vegan dog-sitting daughter. Pick it up. Spending 10 hours waking up my teenage son. Open gifts. Surprise them with Just Dance. Finish preparing dinner. Clear the covers. Then I dance all day until I have to take my dog-sitting daughter at 8 p.m.
A snowstorm on Christmas Eve complicates matters, as do dozens of Christmas Day calls to assorted families in different time zones. The weather is already out of my control, as is my Honda Civic on snowy roads. So I go back and borrow someone's truck to pick up the older one, wasting more time. I'm Ray Liotta in the final act of Goodfellas, except he didn't have an ugly Christmas sweater or stress-induced rosacea.
What was supposed to be a leisurely gift unwrapping has me shouting opening instructions like we're attacking an enemy outpost.
“You, son. Climb up the left side of the tree. Get grandma's. On my account… open up!
“You need to relax, Dominik,” my wife says. “It's Christmas.”
“But we have to play a fun game of Just Dance 25!” Shout.
“Can we play Just Shoosh 25 instead?” my son offers.
I have an hour until my eldest has to leave, and Christmas dinner consists of three oily towers of mushrooms, spinach and onions placed next to a vegan pastry dough that refuses to thaw.
I can't do everything. I can't do vegan Christmas and Play Just Dance 25.
Sometimes dads have to make difficult decisions. I'm Bruce Willis and this is my Nakatomi Plaza.
“Forget dinner!” cry. “Set the switch!”
“But I won't have time to eat,” says the Daughter who looks after dogs.
“I have roasted potatoes and carrots. “I’ll put them in a tupperware,” I reply. “That's totally vegan!”
Nothing stands between me and Just Dance 25 now… but a lengthy game setup process will kill any Christmas fun. And although I managed it painfully Of course I needed four Switch controllers, my son hasn't carried his.
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Fortunately, it turns out we can use our phones. That's the good news. The bad news is that my wife has a strange superpower that means nothing electronic works in her hands. It takes forever to set it up. Finally, we turn on the first song: Poker Face by Lady Gaga. One of our favorite family tunes. Here we go!
We don't do it here. No one knows which on-screen character they're supposed to follow. It's total chaos.
Next: The Lost Case of Green Day. Also garbage.
I'm losing them. This will be the worst Christmas ever.
Then, in the corner, I see four letters that give me hope.
Abba. Dear old Abba. Glorious Abba.
We repeat three of its melodies in quick succession. Something clicks into place. Unfortunately, it's one of my wife's hips and she taps to prepare the package of roasted vegetables for our departing daughter.
It's me against the children. But they make the mistake of choosing I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor. A song that I have danced to on four different continents. I know every beat of that song. In a few moments I am shirtless, I am a man possessed. I destroy them.
Then they select Boogie Wonderland, which has us in hysterics because it allows each of us to be the center of attention. It's smart. It's magical. We are falling into each other's arms. It's joyful. Just Dance has saved Christmas.
We send videos of the madness to our distant daughter who responds “I'M WEAK!!!” which is apparently a good thing.
People reflect on the meaning of Christmas: is it religious, family, partying, food, or “posting photos on Facebook of the expensive things you have to piss off other people”? For me it is a question of memories. And we just created another beautiful one that will warm us all, no matter where we are next year.