I got out of work nearly an hour late, which meant I could go STRAIGHT to the dance studio and get in on the quickie lesson, or go home and shower, then just make the dance party. I decided a shower was more than necessary.

(I will rant later on teenagers and the taking of EVERY single bar of deodorant in the house.)

So I go home and check on the girls, who have supper done and are ready to eat as I walk in. I pat them on the head, say some nice things and jump in the shower. Clean jeans, nice blouse, kiss kiss, be good. Out the door.

Being low maintenance has it's benefits.

I head out and manage to find the place fair easily. It just so happens that this is the studio by the club all the chicks at work go to when they go out. So I have been here before. Once.

I make it to the sidewalk and realise what I THOUGHT I would find doesn't even come close to reality. I THOUGHT it would be some podunk hole in the wall place in a strip mall, with folding metal chairs around a hardwood floor beneath glaring flourescents. A few straggling men of varying age and far too many women for them.

Well. I got the strip mall part right.

Hitting the sidewalk I see the entrance to a room with flourescents over a hardwood expanse. A few chairs are in the corner by the glass with a couple of young women in them over a laptop. But the other half dozen or so people in the room are all men. And more than half of those are ATTRACTIVE men.

Okay. I frown. Hold up. The room looks right, but.......

I glance at the wall and in the mirrors I see a dimmed expanse with twirling couples flitting by. Taking a step back I begin to inspect the glass down the building. Down I walk, glimpsing through heavy blinds the spinning dancers, down and down, until I realise that flourescent lit room is the FOYER of a HUGE studio with already a full dance floor only two minutes after the "party" was set to begin.

No mom and pop set up is this! (I met the woman who proudly proclaimed herself the webdesigner for the place. I don't know why no one has told her that her design gives the impression of smallness. I don't see me being the one who does that. She was so damn proud of herself.)

So I'm looking in, debating. Do I really want to do this? I had some silly notion of being able to just join in but one look at the swaying well timed couples and I knew better. My confidence wasn't crushed. It was POWDERED. I watch a little longer until this guy dressed sooooooo twenties comes out to smoke. He asks if I am there to dance. I say yes. He sort of motions at the door. "Go on in."

So I did. I paid my seven dollars and got the friendly run down of where the ice is and where the sodas are and where the water is. Got it. Kitchen's in there. No problem.

I step into the REAL dance studio. The lights are dim, but not so dim that seeing is difficult, just dim enough to lend an air of romance. The music is just loud enough for dancing, but not so loud that you cannot converse if you like. Without shreiking of course.

A waltz is playing. Easily two dozen couples spin and whirl over golden hardwood. Some ladies in rippling skirts, some in dazzling sequins, some in jeans. All of them in fabulous shoes. (Would you believe, I was wearing fabulous shoes too?) The men wear jeans and slacks and button up shirts for just a dash of formality that seems the perfect touch.

That one latin showoff spins decadently in the middle with his fortunate chosen of the moment. He is all in black, with his slacks just tight enough to accent a fine tight posterior but loose enough down the leg to flare when he styles. She in is a black Marilyn style dress. Her shoes are hot pink and DARLING.

I find a bit of wall to hold up, not fare from the over stuffed arm chairs scattered down the wall. Tables with soft chairs adorn every corner. They are all full.

The first poor sucker steps up, drawn, no doubt, by the cleavage. My blouse is showing rather a goodly portion of cleavage this evening. One might even think I had done that on purpose. (I did.) He introduces himself, and his friend, and asks me to dance.

Eastern swing, I think it was called. It was basicly a slow jitterbug, which I know. I give a poor showing, but at least did not step on his toes. I sit down.

Poor sucker number two steps up. Now let me just say, this one is charming. He friendly and able to get me onto the dance floor and he kept me there for TWO songs, even though I could neither chacha nor waltz. He showed me. I tried to follow. I really need to work on that following thing. Again, did not step on his toes. Yay!

Unsuspecting sap number three steps up. This guy tried. He did. He was kind and talked me through the waltz one step at a time. He kept stopping and starting over even though he OBVIOUSLY knew very very well how to do it. But I didn't and I can't follow so , so much for that. Then he said something that made it make perfect sense. "Every time you bring a foot down, shift your weight."

Oh. Yeah. I can do that.

And I did. I straightened my posture. Let his put my arms where they should be and looked him right in the eye. And we DID it. I waltzed almot the whole length of the dance floor!

Naturally, he HAD to talk. Which I understand, he was being great. He was. He praised me. He said "There you go." and "You've got it." and then....

"You are even to the music now."

And that was just so damned FUNNY! Because in the past, on the dance floor at every club I have ever been in, I ROCKED that place. I pwned the dance floor and everyone on it. I have had people say that I seem to just go with the music.

And here, I was the poor "special" kid who everyone KNEW couldn't keep a beat but you don't have the heart to crush her dancing spirit so nobody says anything.

I laughed. A ME laugh, loud and lusty and uncontrollable. Which of course, scared him. He apologised and I couldn't stop laughing long enough to explain that he hadn't insulted me or what was so funny. Believe it or not, he didn't ask me to dance again.

Then The German sat in the same row of chairs as myself. This was when the 'webdesigner' stepped up and introduced herself. So listening to her talk to the man two seats to my left, I knew his name and that he had googled them like me. So after a few moments of watching the fray, I spoke to him.

Nice guy. On a work visa from Germany, his english was not bad at all. He literally has been in Texas for a week and is out vetting dance studios. He is no newcomer to Ballroom. We spoke a bit and then he asked if he could leave me since he wanted to dance and I had already said I didn't know how.

He asked permission to leave me. It was so oddly gentlemanly and unexpected. I waved him off, of course. An American would simply have gotten up and gone looking for a partner. It threw me. Whenever he came to sit beside me later I kept pointing out ladies whom I had noticed danced well for him to approach.

He really was quite good.

Our intrepid explorer from the earlier chacha came BACK to get me out to chacha again, this time, adding a turn. I STILL did not step on his toes. Yay!!!

The German finally convinces me to dance swing with him. I still can't follow, but we did okay. Then he tries to waltz with me. Poor guy. I could SEE the frustration in his face as he stopped and restarted over and over and I just wasn't getting it. But he kept speaking nicely. I apologised for the torture of dancing with me. He said "Oh that is not torture. You have not once stepped on my toes."

Yay!!!

The evening's dancing ends. I decide I need to reclaim some of my confidence and walk down to the club. I get there just in time for the C&W to change to heavy hip hop. Hitting the dance floor I drop it like it's hot.

Twenty minutes later, I leave. I danced the whole time. No one stepped up to dance with me. The smoke is choking me and my eyes are watering.

My throat is STILL sore from inhaling all that smoke. I should have known better. That is how long it has been since I went out. The smoke never bothered me before.

I had to stop at the store for milk on my way home. I practiced my waltz while I shopped.