Fred Astaire

When we left off last Saturday I had just shown up for my first ballroom dance class incorrectly attired, but stayed in the hope that our 99-year-old instructor would have us ready for Dancing with the Stars in no time. That didn’t actually happen.

Unfortunately for me there was almost nothing in the way of instruction because the class was run like one of those old school formal dances. We women had to sit against the wall and wait for one of the gentlemen to ask us to dance, so I sat patiently and waited for the music to start. To say that I was uncomfortable would be putting it mildly. I looked more like someone who was waiting to begin a tennis match rather than a ballroom dance class, but I had taken the trouble to show up, so although I was still fighting the urge to leave, I chose to stick it out.

When the class finally began it became apparent that the proficiency of the participants varied wildly. We started with the bossa nova, and I could immediately see that the first man to ask me to dance had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He just shuffled me around the room with a huge smile on his face while he tried in vain to keep time with the music. The next guy who asked me to dance, however, was a regular Fred Astaire. His execution of the steps was flawless - smooth, graceful, and perfectly timed. Meanwhile I just fumbled along attempting as best I could to follow his lead. I wasn’t getting anywhere, and by the time class ended, I hadn’t learned a thing. That Dancing with the Stars fantasy was headed straight out the window.

I gave it my best shot, but I think I can safely say that ballroom dancing was a complete and abject failure. I still don’t know how to do the fox trot, the tango, the rumba, or any of the other dances whose names I can’t recall. I have to say at this point it’s looking like I never will.