So you think you can dance?

My wife and I were watching “So You Think You Can Dance” the other night when I joked, “We should go on that.”

Sarah nearly fell off the couch she was laughing so hard.

I didn’t think it was that funny. Sarah has 15 years of hard training under her belt — she teaches dance class and has rhythm.

Me? I can do a mean funky chicken.

I’m not sure where my lack of rhythm comes from. Most people on my mom’s side of the family are musically inclined. In fact, my mom always tells the story of when I was little and she would put on an Elvis record (yeah, I’m dating myself here) and I would clear off the living room table, jump up and shake my hips in nothing but a diaper.

Jeff Say — aspiring male dancer. Thankfully, I broke out of that stage.

But at some point, I lost my will or my ability to dance. I love music and I always nod my head along with the beat, but once it comes time to incorporate my arms, legs, feet and hands — it just looks like a train wreck. So for years I would idly sit by, content to be the wall flower at school dances because I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Then came my college days. My first couple of years I didn’t dance. Mostly because I was still trying to impress women, and a spastic flapping of the arms might work to attract the opposite sex in some species, but not in any of my experiences.

Until, one day, my buddies and I were up at four in the morning for some reason. We weren’t tired and were watching some late-night TV show when “Flowers on the Wall” came on VH1 classic for some reason.

Being the class clown, the court jester of my friends, I decided to make up a little dance to this truly terrible song. I had always been a fan of “hardcore” music and had witnessed some really bad dancing at all the shows I had gone to over the years. So I decided to meld those terrible dance moves into my “piece de resistance” for my friends.

I started out with “picking up change,” simply bending over and acting like you’re picking up pennies off the floor while your elbows pump back and forth like pistons; then I moved on to the “Windmill,” the “sprinkler,” the “running man,” and finished it by whipping my shirt over my head.

By this time, my buddies were curled up in the fetal position laughing hysterically.

My mission was accomplished; I had made everyone laugh and I thought nothing of it. Until the next night during a social gathering with about 200 of our closest friends when I noticed a strange song coming over our speaker system.

“There’s flowers on the wall …” the song started. “Oh no,” I said to my friend Keith. “They don’t expect me to dance, do they?”

Keith simply smiled at me and pointed at the dance floor. There was my friend Tim, clearing a space to pull off my moves. After much protesting, I obliged. To this day I’m not sure why, but my awful dance routine caught on. At each social gathering we did, people would cheer for it, and soon I had a whole entourage of dancers. Thankfully, Sarah never witnessed this event, though her friends did. I was simply known to them as “the dancer.”

So during our TV-watching the other night, I broke out my moves for my wife, showing her I had the chops to go on the Fox reality show.

I’m guessing by her laughing that I should probably just stick to being comic relief.