the further adventures of dance club

Last night we went dancing, even though we were both exhausted, didn't really want to go (in a very, very three-year-old "Don't wanna!" way), and would have much preferred to be configuring computery bits that weren't working properly and that sort of thing. But, here's the thing, they know this. And by they, I mean the dance people. So they put a 24-hour cancellation policy on these lessons, which are not at all as cheap as an envelope of tuna. Why not call in sick, you ask? Well, we did that last week. (These past couple of weeks have been really, really, really hard.)

But we had a great time, as we always do. Our instructor loves us, because we laugh and laugh and we make him laugh too. He mocks us, we all mock the other dancers and especially the instructors. "Look at the expressions on the bald guy!" And then our instructor threatens to also make tsk-tsk faces, ouch faces and the occasional faux-beaming face. We were also told last night at our first private lesson taking place at the same time as a group lesson -- picture a really crowded studio with lots of people paying no attention whatsoever to one another and yet dodging each other at the same time -- that people "clap around here when they get excited." At which point we asked if they were clapping for the geeky Muppet hair kid. "Usually," was the deadpan reply. So, foxtrot, waltz, and not much else, as we were even more giggly than usual. When we screw up, it's usually because we're laughing so hard. Once, Christopher ran me into a table just to make a point. Now I routinely stop and look over my shoulder. Lessons, people, lessons. Not just dance, but life.

We were given a sheet of paper and told to choose what "level" we want to be at. A level was pointed at in response to my question of, "Which one's good enough that people who don't know any better will think you're really good?" The middle. Always the middle.

But here's the most important thing of all:

The dwarf is actually a very good dancer.