So Angus and I decided to try to do more fun, exciting interesting things as a couple and try to work on personal improvements at the same time (because my being able to recite lines from Buffy the Vampire Slayer just doesn't impress him, and I apparently seem underwhelmed at his ability to spot a 256kv line at 20 paces). Because romance isn't all about champagne and Lush-filled bubble baths (or so say the fuckers at American Express and backed up by my current intolerance of the good old-fashioned hangover). Romance is about doing things together as a long-established couple, particularly things that will show off your shortcomings in front of the other person, kind of a "Hey-I may give a mean blow job, but I also have gone up a bra size, you've seen me vomit, AND I'd like to expose you to the list of talents I don't actually have."

Hallmark has nothing on me.

Thus we signed up for two courses. You know. Like lovers do (Annie Lennox should have seen this coming, really. It's not really about walking in the open breeze or diving into each other's oceans. It's about continuing education and the overflowing laundry basket, both of which can be addressed with aplomb and without the need to dye one's hair stop-light red.) We decided to sign-up for two very different things to learn about.

The first is a course that we take every Monday evening, held (embarassingly) in the cafeteria of a local elementary school (is it my imagination or have school lunches gotten better over the years? Seriously. I think they are, and I don't mean this in a "I walked uphill both ways in the snow" kind of way). Surprisingly, it was Angus' suggestion and he who did the research to get us on to the course. And because of the surge of popularity due to Strictly Come Dancing, the course was full and so we were put on to an alternate course.

That's right.

One of the courses we're taking is Ballroom and Latin Dancing.

We are in with about 20 other couples, most of whom are older (not really a problem with that, although I do feel the need to brush up on my CPR skills). There is one couple composed of two women, one of whom has clearly coerced her friend into taking the class with her (I know this as the coerced friend has made it clear that when they dance she gets to be the girl partner. Always. And if I were the coerced one that's what I would insist on, too.) When we signed up the elderly couple teaching the course asked us if we were the couple who had signed up in order to learn to waltz for our wedding. After I'd pried Angus down from the ceiling I smiled kindly and confirmed to her that no, we weren't said couple.

And so it started.

The couple who teach the class are an elderly couple that used to compete professionally in ballroom and latin dancing, and now want to continue dancing and so teach it in their retirement. They are very cute and very short, both with pale blue rheumy eyes and the most tragic choices in waltz music. He stands with stiff shoulders a la Frankenstein and every time he watches us Angus freaks out and we misstep. She is a cute chatterbox who, if she corrects you, you're in for a good five minute conversation.

We show up every week, both of us dressed in jeans and me in ballet flats. Every week we work on the previous steps we were taught and add on a twist. Every week we spend an hour stepping and twirling.

And every week we are terrible at it.

Really, really awful.

Luckily, the two women couple are actually the worst in the class. We take comfort that although we suck, we're not the poster children for suck. We secretly worry that they'll drop the class as if they do, we'll then be the worst ones in the class. If they do that then we're screwed as unfortunately, they do not offer a remedial dance class, a waltzing for dummies.

We are both long-legged and so can't help but take too-big steps, so that we have hurtled halfway across the dance floor within half a waltz step. Angus is a very geometric kind of guy and likes to think of thinks in patterns, to try to find the lines and visualize the path in his head. This means if something doesn't compute, he spends ages trying to figure it out. For me, I am utterly hopeless at anything involving any coordination other than hand-eye (thank you Mario Brothers). I was always the one getting it wrong in step aerobics, I couldn't tap dance my way out of a paper bag, and the idea of walking into a crystal shop is so hauntingly dangerous to my insurance premiums that it sends shudders of horror down my spine.

In the first class we learnt the waltz steps. I felt like Frenchy, as my dance partner Angus waltzed me around the dance floor with his eyes closed and counting 1-2-3, 1-2-3, back-2-3- (and I wasn't even dressed like a banana). We spent an hour and a half trying to figure out where to put our feet and giggling like poodle-skirted teenagers.

We had just about gotten the waltz step down when they added a turn. Then they added another one. It's as though we're following a cockney conversation-we're always two steps behind trying to figure out what the hell is going on, meanwhile the rest of the twirling couples are swirling around the dance floor. We've become the couple that others try to avoid being around, as typically we crash around the place and get our steps all wrong. Whenever the instructor pair gather us in a circle to teach us a new step, they stand facing us and always look at us when announcing "This next step may cause some trouble."

Of course it will. It involves feet and moving. We're naturally going to be completely lost.

And that's just the waltz steps. Don't even get me started on the cha cha, which has declared Angus as its mortal enemy and seeks to break him.

The truth is, we generally have a great time, although this past Monday we were beginning to feel pretty dejected as we are so utterly ass at this dancing stuff, that even though you have a riot doing it over time it wears your ego down to be just that rubbish at something. We decide to persevere, because we enjoy the hell out of each other, even if we weren't getting a whole lot from the class. Or at least, we weren't until this past Monday.

We were typically lost and unable to figure out what to do. We were also typically in fits of giggles and laughter as we screwed up every single step and turn imaginable. We weren't the only ones who were lost-another couple got into a huge domestic, and as the woman stormed out the man burst into tears (we watched this in fascination. We like a little drama with our waltzing). As the male dance instructor came up behind Angus, I saw him hold his forehead in his hands and sigh dramatically. This sent me into renewed fits of laughter.

"Why are you making it so hard?" the instructor demanded.

"Because it IS hard!" Angus laughed.

"Why don't you show me the step again, your way?" the instructor asked, exasperated.

Angus gathered me up in his arms, shifted his weight, and looked over his shoulder. "Um....ok, which way is my way again?"

The instructor looked like he wanted to weep. "You're over-complicating it," he said woefully. He showed us the step, complete with the turning. We followed the step.

And we did it right.

Then we did it again.

And again.

In no time, we were waltzing around the room, albeit in half the time that the others were as we're still taking steps that would make the Jolly Green Giant envious. We grinned. I felt like snogging Angus to death, and ironically he told me after class that he just wanted to kiss me, too. We may have been about as graceful as Judy Garland on Valium, we had as much style as Roseanne Barr in Ice Capades, but we didn't give a fuck. We had the dance steps down, and we're so dangerous on the dance floor that no one there would dare give us a hard time. We swirled and twirled and got it right.

Then they decided to teach us the quick step and we had to go home for the day.

We know when to stop while we're ahead.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:53 AM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
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