Light Refreshments Served

I can’t decide how to start this post. My choices so far:

1. “In my defense…”
2. “Have I mentioned that I’m not a dancer?”
3. “Whereas most people just get liquored up first…”
4. “That’s it, I have to move.”

What the heck, let’s just get to it. So, there is a group of people that I go to church with who have organized themselves into a dance class, okay? Okay. “Come! It’s so fun!” they have beckoned to the masses for the last several weeks. I was intrigued, so one week I decided to get more specific information, such as “Is this mostly made up of skinny, bendy people or will I be able to keep up?” “NO!” they assured me. “It’s for anybody. We’re just there to have fun.” They even went so far as to list the people who were regularly attending this class, and I realized that there were a lot of fun people involved. So I decided to swallow my pride, accept any kind of humiliation I might encounter as character building, and go to a class. It’s held every Thursday at a dance studio down the street.  I went last night for the first time.

This is the part where a time machine would be really handy. What I WOULD NOT GIVE for 1.21 jiggawatts of electricity to engage my flux capacitor at this very moment to take me back. I don’t even need to retreat that far, I just need to change the part where I say, “Bye! I’m going to dance class!” with “Bye! I’m going to go crawl naked over broken glass!” I’m telling you right now, I would choose broken glass ANY. DAY.

I guess I was expecting an exercise class of sorts. You know, the kind where you jump around to music, move your hips a little more than normal and call it “Salsa”.

What I was NOT expecting:
- For the instructor to come in, turn on the music, and have everybody start dancing to choreography that they had already been practicing for two months.
- For there to be a man in the class
- For that man to be wearing dance shoes
- For me to wish for sudden death

After the initial twenty minutes of “Do As I’m Doing – Or NOT”, the instructor performed her first act as a real, live instructor and requested that everybody “get a partner”. I was paired up with someone I work with in Primary at church; a small, cute, petite thing who looks as if she’s never thought a bad thing about anybody in her life. She and I are instructed, along with the other three groupings, to approach each other from across the room and glare at the other the entire way. We are supposed to look as if we are at odds, we are mad, and we’re about to get even. Through dance. May I take this opportunity to tell my partner, I AM SO SORRY you got stuck with me. We are walking across the floor, feigning attitude and suppressing giggles. I ask my counterpart, whose face doesn’t really know how to do angry, “Um, are you mad or just sucking on a Sour Patch Kid? I can’t tell.” Doesn’t matter, I can’t stop laughing. We are doing a lyrical, interpretive dance and I am officially in Hell. With no door. And no Ben & Jerry’s. I say to myself, “Only 15 more minutes,” but the instructor says, “Now go in the middle with your partner and dance while everyone else watches.” This is like being caught in stirrups at the doctor’s office, getting ready to be violated when he suddenly quips, “Oh, you don’t mind if a med student comes in too, do you?” I am trapped. It’s official. The only thing that could make this worse is if someone is harboring a hidden camera and it’s about to show up on YouTube. I remind myself, “THIS is why you didn’t try out for the dance team in high school. When did you get stupid?”

When class finally ended, the instigator of this whole thing kindly offered to teach me the dance at her house to bring me up to speed, you know, so I don’t look so freaking ridiculous next time. Except she didn’t say the “freakin’ ridiculous” part, that’s just me being supportive of myself. But what this very nice and beautiful (and skinny and bendy) woman doesn’t know, is that practice is not exactly what I need. It’s a lobotomy, so I can make sure something like this never happens again. When she’s ready to offer me that, then we can talk.