I was invited by a coworker to go ballroom dancing with her Friday night after a hectic week at work. She had to convince me, and my social calandar was waning, so I decided to go.
Now you need to know that I have never been graceful. My picture is under klutz in the dictionary. You name it, I've walked into it or been bruised by it. I've even gotten caught in a revolving door. Body awareness and kinesthetics have never been aspects where I have excelled.
That said, I came in from work and quickly showered. I mentally tried on everything in my closet. What do normal people wear when they ballroom dance? I had cute shoes, but could I really stand in them all night? I decided to be safe and wear some faithful tennis shoes. I couldn't very well wear those with my cute skirts, so I defaulted to dressing up jeans with a fancy blouse. I made the effort and curled my hair to "fix" it, a laborious effort that I haven't extended since maybe last Christmas. I left thinking I looked nice enough.
I arrived and looked around to see all of the women wearing high heels. I thought I saw one man wearing jeans. Later, another lady arrived wearing jeans, too, which made me feel better. Still awkward, but with a silent alibi who appreciated comfort.
So far as the dancing goes, I caught on quickly. Instructors taught basic steps during the first part of the party. I clumsily foxtrotted and waltzed, tango'd and salsa'd. It was fun.
Then they tried to sell packages. Several instructors really worked on me to get me to buy. They didn't know how to answer when I told them that my husband was out of town and I didn't have permission to spend any money until he returned.
When in doubt, blame the guy who isn't there to argue.
There was a live big-band for the next part of the party. They were okay, maybe twenty of them. It was kindof a free-dance thing. People asked other people to dance.
I think I did more watching people dance than actually dancing. I enjoy people-watching; it was probably more fun to me than the party itself.
There were a couple hundred people there, most of whom knew what they were doing. Some people giddy with knowing what they were doing. Imagine a big wedding party where everybody wanted to be out on the floor dancing.
And, no, they didn't play the funky chicken.
(Which was slightly disappointing because I *know* that dance.)
Idunno if I could talk The Hater into taking lessons. And I'm not really sure that I want to talk him into taking lessons. It would have been a lot more fun if he could have been there with me -- to dance -- or roll eyes at the show-offs... or to feel out of place with me.
Those things are always appreciated.
Enjoying: Sundays at the Mall
1 day ago