[dc]L[/dc]ike many other suburban, mid-Western white males, I excel at terrible dancing. Nearly every time I dance, I end up explaining to paramedics I was not having a stroke. This put the cramp on my sister’s wedding, and resulted in my name being left off more and more wedding invitation lists.¹
However, Mom’s bloodline did gift me a basic knowledge of rhythm, which I discovered when I took up drums a few years ago. Other gifts include: talking with my hands like nobody’s business and making cannoli disappear.
Stephanie and I signed up for a ballroom dancing class and I was, in a word, terrified. Not because I might see paramedics each week. No, something worse: I might have to buy a new pair of shoes.
“Do you have dancing shoes?” Stephanie asked as she read an email from the class instructor on her smart phone.
Clad in a Speed Racer T-shirt, ripped jeans, and clearance rack sneakers I said, “Do I look like the kind of person who owns dancing shoes?”
She rolled her eyes and rephrased the question, “Do you have any shoes besides sneakers?”
“I have a pair of cowboy boots.” Her eyes slowly drifted above the top edge of her smart phone, “And, why do you have cowboy boots?”
“For my Fistful of Dollars Halloween costume.” Duh.
Stephanie shook her head. She hinted I could buy a pair of shoes for the class. “I’m not buying a new pair of shoes just for a class,” I said.
With her best Clair Huxtable stare, she said, “But you’ll buy a pair of cowboy boots for a Halloween costume?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I can’t wear a gun belt and spurs with sneakers. That’s just silly.” Another laser stare. “And they were like $5 on eBay.”
After spending some serious time surveying my three pairs of shoes, I decided on my retro-sneakers with most of the tread worn off. The smooth soles resembled racing slicks, and would hopefully make me as slippery as Pavel Datsyuk in an oil spill.²
Movies taught me that our dance teacher would either be a chain-smoking, gruff-voiced woman who’s best years ended with the Nixon Administration, or a wire-thin, super-strict cane wielding woman with a thick German and/or Russian accent.
Nope. Our instructor was young, perky, and never threatened to hit me with a cane. Once again, the moving pictures failed me.³
After our first instructions, Stephanie and I took a stab at a waltz. “Mr. Hogan,” she said with a smile, “You can count to three.”
My left foot slid forward, more or less with the beat, “I used to play drums. I can count up to four if needed.”
She smiled to her fullest, and so did I: no one had called the paramedics.
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¹ Which is a shame, as I enjoy an open bar and extra dinner rolls as much as the next cheap skate.
² Hockey Humor, Attempted.
³ Like how Star Wars had me think all bearded old guys in robes go around dispensing wisdom and lightsabers. Well, they don’t. At least not outside the bus station.
Daniel J. Hogan is available to dance poorly at your wedding for a large fee. Follow him on Twitter, @danieljhogan.
