There is something simply magnificent about an exercise that my medical aid gives me points for that I can do with a glass of excellent white wine at my fingertips.
It also gives me satisfaction to get my husband on a dance floor, despite his long-term aversion to any shaking, grooving or moving to a beat.
Also, after a few too many glasses of wine, I promised my salsa dancing friend that of course I was going to start dancing. When sober, I felt that I couldn’t back down to such a challenge, so I enrolled at Dance Café in Rivonia.
Did I just enroll in salsa? Oh hell no! I took out a monthly dance as much as you like membership.
Can I dance?
Alone, in the kitchen wielding a spatula I can bust the moves out like Kevin Bacon in Footloose.
On a dance floor with a dance instructor? I basically look and feel like a epileptic baby giraffe falling over its own feet.
Will I be able to dance.
I am determined to form some of neural pathway between my reluctant feet and my overactive imagination.
Besides, it’s fun.
I was super proud of shimmy-shammying and ability to go backwards and forwards. And then, something happened. Twirls. Turns. Whatever.
And I turned into a dizzy spinning top destined for self immolation.
Choose a spot on the wall they said. You won’t get dizzy, they said.
First off, I’m turning so fast I can’t find a spot.
Secondly, I’m not wearing my glasses (they fog up), so everything is already blurry.
Thirdly, my co-ord leaves a lot to be desired.
With every turn I felt more and more like I was trapped on some vile rollercoaster hurtling towards oblivion.
And the outcome was that I ran out of the class to lose my lunch in the bathroom.
And my husband thought it was hysterical and proceeded to brag about how he got all the moves down.
How did this backfire on me?
I was supposed to entice and delight him with my secret latin dance mamba, not provide comedic relief!
Somehow, I must gather up the tattered ruins of my pride and return next Wednesday evening and twirl and whirl the hell out of the dance class.
<Also, I am slightly in awe and mainly terrified of my pint sized dance instructor. He’s a multi-awardwinning dancer in basically every form of dance ever invented. And me? Well, I’m clearly not sure at this point that I should be allowed to walk in a straight line, let alone twirl. I am more worried about disappointing him than I am my father.>
I’m going to buy shoes. Fabulous dance shoes that say, “I’m a dancer!” I am sure my brain will respond appropriately to the positive affirmation of dance shoes. Next week, I shall salsa my way into brilliance in sparkly high heels. I’m going to Dorothy the shit out of Oz!