Last night was the first of six Nightclub Dancing lessons. And let’s just say it for the record, I suck! (Yeah, okay, I guess that wasn’t the first time I’ve ever uttered that phrase. Heh) I was barely two-stepping, but promenading? Oh forget it. I’m an editor, not a dancer.
It was an interesting mix of people in the class. Undoubtedly, Dave was the best dancer in our class of mostly men. And speaking of men, the class attracted quite an array of them. The girls were asked to change partners frequently, and while it was a lovely way to meet people (think of the sweetheart Mike who was my partner a few times, who was always courteous and took the blame upon himself for when we missed our steps), but then there was Onion-Breath Gary in the Dayglo-orange shirt, whose mouth was just above my poor nose. Anyone who knows me knows that I won’t go near an onion with a 10-foot pole, so that wasn’t pleasant. Not one bit. And then there was Debonair Gary, who smelled good and knew how to lead — he should’ve been an instructor himself. I can’t remember the names of the other two guys, but they were cool, if not slightly terrified at first.
I didn’t meet the other women. No need to. None of them really appeared to be anyone whom I’d be thrilled to be all chummy with and have Girls’ Night Out with, so I saved my energies and made sure to only introduce myself to the men.
At any rate, I will never get the damn promenade step. Perhaps my shoes — all clunky and comfy — were the culprit, but I wasn’t ready to be twirling around on the first night, either.
The instructor was cute and petite — I hope she ingests a triple-tier wedding cake between now and the time of the next class, because she weighs about as much as one of my ass cheeks. She’s all gliding around and twirling and shit, and it’s like, damn bitch — eat cake! Would it have been too much to ask for a 300-pound woman instructor who could make the rest of us feel a little more svelte and a little less gawky? Jeez.
At any rate, some of the folks who came to class were just drop-ins and weren’t signed up for the whole session like Dave and I are. I remember trying to coax one of the guys into coming back next week, but he was on the fence about it and probably barely heard me above his step-counting.
I didn’t realize that I was so thoroughly enjoying Mike’s company until Dave asked if I’d scored the boy’s digits. Heh. (That’s a big fat NO, by the way, for those keeping score!) But I must admit that I am way happy that I was the youngest and I suppose most attractive chick in attendance (not counting the 12-pound instructor), by my own standards, anyway, which is a good thing. The instructor, who’s actually the owner, encouraged us to bring friends — preferably female — next week. I’ll bet half of the guys drop off by then, and it will be a girl-on-girl dancing fiesta … but then again, that alone would bring the boys back!!!