We started dance lessons a few weeks ago at M’s suggestion and have been doing a little practice at home. Or at parties we attend. Or at the gym in between sets. It’s addictive.
Ostensibly, he wants us to not shame ourselves at our party in January. To not become victims of the tongue depressor syndrome.
“We’re white people,” he said. “When we dance,we look like we’re having seizures. People who watch us think they should run for a tongue depressor.”
We each have our favorite steps, and those we have trouble with. I had the hardest time with the box step at first. He says he’s got that, but he can’t get swing to save his life. I love swing. (This makes perfect sense if you know us.)
Our January celebration is a pure dance party. We’re making it hard for people to just sit down and talk, because we want everyone on the dance floor.
When people ask if they can bring a guest instead of a spouse, I’m resistant, unless it’s a guest they’ll dance with. Not a companion for a quiet evening.
Because it won’t be a quiet talking evening. It’s a party evening.
While there’s plenty of food, this would NOT be the place to sit and have a quiet conversation over dinner. To catch up.
No. There won’t be many places to sit.
That’s because it’s a DANCE PARTY.
Yes, we are dancin’ fools.
And M. wants us to learn salsa next. Our teacher wants us to tango.
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I’m afraid of dancing. My uncle died dancing. On the end of a rope! Just kidding. That is an old Three Stooges joke.
It does sound like a nice thing to do in so many ways.
If you find yourself in Union Square soon on the weekdays, you’ll have to stop by and say hello.