Dancing Fool

It was a little green tutu, made of a scratchy fabric, but I loved it. In my imagination, I would grow up to be a ballerina, pirouetting with a grace that was breathtaking. Oh, the applause, the adulation.

In those days, dance lessons were not an option. With five other kids to worry about, a limited budget and the fact that I was short, stubby, and not particularly graceful, my lofty ambition never made it out of the gate.

But I could still dream. And I did.

I remember watching Shirley Temple movies. Sometimes I'd tippety tap with my patent leather dress shoes, pretending I was on the Good Ship Lollipop. Later, I developed a little crush on Fred Astaire. He was so smooooth. And Ginger Rogers, with that dress made of feathers. They floated. They dipped. They soared. Wow.

Then there was the couple who lived on our street...they had square dances in their basement. I think I could handle square dancing. Or maybe line dancing. I like the idea of kicking up my heels in cowboy boots.

My parents danced together beautifully. Like they were one person gliding around the dance floor. I don't know how they got that way. To my knowledge, neither one of them had lessons. Maybe it's a generational thing. I'm lousy at slow dancing. I always try to lead.

Fast dancing I can manage, but any idiot can, really, especially if you don't care how you look. I can do the Twist, Swim and Jerk. And the Freddie. But no, I never got into the whole disco thing. As for belly dancing, that's one activity my husband has encouraged me to undertake. But I'm no Naemah. (With a nod here to Vicki.)

I wonder if, given dance lessons, I'd ever improve. I could take ballroom, but I know Mr. would not be interested. And I don't want to hit the floor with a stranger.

So, back to square one. I'll just dance in the privacy of my own home.

And I'll take a twirl at weddings.

I can do the Chicken Dance. Just watch me.