Fred and Ginger

In case you haven't heard, Hubs gave me a bunch of ballroom dance lessons for Christmas. This is something I was delighted over, as I have wanted to learn how to REALLY dance for, well, for ever really.

Until I learned that our fab package included "practice dances."

Oh goody.

I immediately had post traumatic flashbacks to high school dances. So not a time I want to relive. I would rather forget high school ever existed, in fact. definitely NOT the glory days, for me. Being a painfully shy , incredibly awkward kid just smart enough to realize how geeky she was, was so not the high point of life. In fact a few decades and several cross country moves later, the wisdom of experience lets me know I probably over-estimated how horrible it was. Time heals, blah, blah. Mostly. Somewhat.

So can you blame me for thinking up excuses to the first several "practice" parties? I mean I didn't go to my own prom, why on earth would I want to start now?

Yeah, I know what you are thinking...then why take dance lessons? See, I am the type of person who wants to be elegant and graceful but in reality is the type who can break a leg standing still in a parking lot. Yeah, the one who clearly was standing in the popcorn line when God passed out grace. But, I figured, once I mastered the basics, IF I master the basics, I would love to be able to dance...someday. You now, the day that comes right after the 12th of probably never. But it is fun and good exercise so I was perfectly happy in PRIVATE lessons.

The dance was so far beyond my comfort level there isn't even a scale that high. Get all dressed up in formal attire and then learn a dance with a whole group of strangers, all of whom clearly have been dancing for years. Plus due to Hubs never being on time for anything, arrive late and miss the first set of instructions. Oh, and be pushed into the advanced group since the beginner class was full. Nope, no room for disaster here. Being spread-eagled on a delivery table naked with your junk wide open for a room full of medical students to watch another guy reach into your pelvis up to his elbow was less embarrassing. At least having a baby doesn't require heels that cripple you. Plus you can usually score drugs.

Much like high school, at least for us geeks, a "practice party" must be done sober.

After suffering through most of the lesson I finally quit since there was as much chance of mastering the Viennese waltz in 30 minutes as there was of my playing professional football. As a linebacker. So I quietly ducked out and wished for Scotty to please beam me up!

Alas, once the lesson portion was over they opened up the floor to actual dancing. Almost immediately Hubs was snagged by some lady and off they whirled. Fred, unlike me, does not suffer from performance anxiety. He is perfectly at home in situations like this. Of course the only thing worse than getting asked to dance is NOT getting asked, so as I was weighing the odds of stepping out and spending the rest of the night doing something very mature like hiding in the car, my instructor Isaac stepped up and asked me to dance. I politely declined and explained with a grin that my instructor hadn't shown me this dance yet. To which he grinned and held out his hand. "Right, that's what I'm going to do." Oh crap! My "I don't know this dance" excuse wouldn't work on my instructor! Now what to do???

While I was wondering whether to fake appendicitis or actually break a leg, I forgot to panic and as usual he was so calm and easy going, that before I knew it he had me doing the Cha-cha. Sort of.

Despite one utterly humiliating dance with the visiting instructor when he begged me to quit trying and just walk backward, the night ended on a mostly positive note. I only had two smashed toes, and my pride had only been battered to a pulp, probably not a terminal injury, so all in all, I can't wait to do it again.

When you know where freezes, that is!