Dance Fever has officially swept our household.
Carlie has *graduated* up a level in ballroom dance and is attending more classes. She is actually doing quite an amazing job and I love watching her dance. We've finally hit on an activity that she (a) loves (b) is good at and (c) sitting thru a practice does not make me want to drink heavily. Yay!
As part of her dance program, there are Friday night "open dances," where the students (all adult except for Carlie) get together with wine and such and, you know, dance, with each other and with the instructors. Because when you're shelling out the equivalent of a mortgage payment each month to learn snazzy dance moves, it's definitely in the studio's best interest to give you a place to regularly use said snazzy dance moves, with others who also know the same snaz. So really, the Friday night dance parties are a big marketing ploy designed to keep the dance students hooked on dance. I get that.
But the thing is? The parties? Are REALLY FUN. I know! Go figure.
So Carlie and I have been enjoying the Friday night dance parties, but Tim has been somewhat reluctant to engage. In case I haven't mentioned this before, let me state it in no uncertain terms. TIM CANNOT DANCE. Tim cannot keep time to music. Tim has no sense of what "the beat" is. On the dance floor, Tim is like a scary mix of Adam Corolla and Tom Delay on Dancing with the Stars, plus a hint of The Elephant Man.
Or should I say *was*. Because Tim? Is taking dance lessons! I know! Right?
Totally his idea! Because he wanted to have some basic skills to be able to get off the couch during the Friday night dance parties. I can't even tell you how OUTSIDE OF THE NORM this is for my husband. Seriously. WAY OUTSIDE. But I'm not complaining.
Our dance lessons are through the Parks & Rec Department, not Arthur Murray, because, hello, did you see the part about the monthly expense of Carlie's dance lessons being the equivalent of a mortgage payment? Yeah, not making that up. OK. Maybe not a mortgage payment. But definitely a very nice brand new car payment.
So once a week, we are doing ballroom dance, a very *beginner* class. Wherein *beginner* = a room full of adults learning to MARCH in TIME with the MUSIC. Yeah. I suggested to Tim that we bump up to a more intermediate class. And he had a slight panic episode and declined. Marching and clapping in time with the music, preschool style, is right where he needs to be, apparently.
That is until he became obsessed with learning to tango. So now in addition to Carlie's dance classes three nights a week, plus our class one night per week, we're doing a "learn to tango" video at home. Which is insanely fun.
But wait! There's more!
Last night, I started a tap class. As in TAP DANCING. As in WHY YES, I AM 70 YEARS OLD AND TRYING TO RELIVE MY SHIRLEY TEMPLE YOUTH, THANK YOU FOR NOTICING.
How scary is it that I have moved three times, once cross country, have recently done a thorough house declutter and purge and yet I still have two pairs of tap shoes, even though I have not done a dance class since 1988?