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Written by Cheryl Norton
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Thursday, 04 February 2010 |
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This month, I've started dancing lessons. It's not a new year's resolution, but more by luck that I'm going. My good friend Lou won a series of dance lessons for two people before Christmas. For some reason, her boyfriend wanted no part in it, so she offered the spare place to me. Being a big fan of the Strictly Come Dancing TV series, I jumped at the opportunity. I was excited to see that each week we'd be learning a new style of dance and had images of dancing the Tango in no time at all.
The first week we were told that we would learn the basics of the
Foxtrotand the Samba. Fully expecting that we'd be dancing together,
Lou and I were surprised to be partnered up with other men in the
class. Or should I say boys. I was partnered with a teenage shuffler
who didn't really say too much and tried his best to lead me around the
floor. So much for my dreams of being whisked about by a Brendan Cole
lookalike, I thought. Meanwhile, Lou was faring much better with the
only vaguely good looking young man present who happened to be one of
the teachers. At least he knew what he was doing. The teachers were all
very good and, despite trying and failing miserably to dance the
Foxtrot with The Shuffler, I had a really good time.
Week two: went over what we'd learnt in week one and then discovered that we would be learning
the Waltz. I silently prayed that I'd get a new dance partner. The
teachers announced that the boys would pick who they'd like to dance
with. Cringe! How embarrassing. I suddenly felt as though I'd been
transformed back to a school disco where you wait for the boys to ask
you to dance. No
need for me to worry though, as I was pounced upon almost immediately
by a new boy, Steve. Older than The Shuffler, he had the opposite
problem of boundless enthusiasm complete with verbal diarrhoea which I
put down to nerves. Lou, I noticed, had been paired up with my ex, The
Shuffler.
Ha! "Remember to get up really close to your partner for the foxtrot,"
said the teacher. Ooh-er! I hadn't been this close up to a random man
in quite some time. I could even smell his breath and wondered how Lou
was getting on, having eaten garlic bread for her dinner before she'd
come out. After some initial toe-treading, knee-bashing and plenty of
apologies, my over enthusiastic partner and I managed to circuit the
room in a very basic foxtrot manner. We were thrilled. Now all we
needed to do was try and look up instead of examining our feet all the
time - and I'd also have to try and get Steve tostop counting out loud
too as you don't see them doing that on the telly!
When I did eventually pluck up the courage to raise my head and see how
everyone else was progressing, I noticed a few romantic couples fully
enjoying being up close and personal with their loved ones. Ahhh....how
sweet. Perhaps these men were there simply to please their wives
girlfriends? Perhaps they wanted to share an activity together? Or
maybe they were there under pressure from their other halves? I thought
of The
Husband, at home, and how I obviously hadn't mastered that trick yet.
I'd been asking and nagging him to do dancing lessons with me for ages.
He was ecstatic when Lou won the tickets as it finally got me off his
back.
Later still, in the car on the way home, Lou and I dissected the events
of the evening and, more importantly, our partners. We were intrigued
by the fact that both of our dancing partners were seemingly young,
single men who had chosen to go to dance classes on their own. Were
they really into
dancing, as Steve had proclaimed all night long, or were they really
there to try and pick up girls? Perhaps they were lonely and looking to
meet new people? Then again, perhaps we were judging them far too much
against our own real life partners who would sooner be down the pub
than doing theCha-Cha. There's still six more weeks to go and I'm ever
so keen to attempt some more new moves and perhaps dance with some
other new partners. I might not get Brendan Cole, or even a fancy
sequinned dress, but I'd be happy to make it smoothly across the dance
floor without counting out loud, looking at my feet, or even falling
over!
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