We can’t dance. You might even use the word terrible if you saw us trying.
I’ve always blamed it on a lack of practice rather than a lack of skill. Scott and I were high school sweethearts who attended all our Christian high school’s formal banquets together. I shopped for the perfect dress, stocked up on Aquanet so I could get my hair just right, got my nails done, and called the florist in time to have exactly the boutonniere I wanted. Scott vacuumed his car and gave it a good shine. He rented the shiniest tux he could find and requested a hot pink cummerbund to match my dress. We did everything our public school counterparts did. Except dance.
We didn’t miss the dancing; our high school dating lives were full. But then there we were, ten years later, married with little children and suddenly wishing we had better moves to pull out at weddings and events. It looked so fun and effortless to swing, cha-cha, and mambo. We’re both athletic and smart. We can learn this, we thought, so we bought a Groupon for dance lessons.
You know what we got out of those lessons? Laughter. Lots and lots of laughter, coupled with the freedom to let our dream die.
We arrived at our first lesson with high hopes, shiny shoes, and butterflies in our stomachs. Our instructor promised she could teach anyone to dance. She used Scott to demonstrate. I watched intently and counted her steps. My turn. Deep breath. Chin high. Hand in Scott’s.
We counted and stepped. She corrected and we tried again. Our sixty minutes evaporated. We left feeling hopeful and determined to practice. Week after week went by. Our instructor was patient, but I was not. We seemed destined to achieve only 60 percent of the steps.
It wasn’t pretty, folks.
I'll tell you how it all turned out at The Glorious Table!
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