Unfortunately, Veda, your mama don't dance and your daddy don't rock n roll.

I don't dance. I'll just start with that. I've tried, mind you. Many a-time I've tried to get up on the dance floor and shake my groove thang. But, um, my groove thang just doesn't shake all that well. Never has, really. Middle school dances left me sitting on the bleachers waiting for my mom to pick me up. And prom was pretty much the same thing, although, I could drive myself home by that point. And then as an adult, weddings... oy. When the electric slide starts up, I generally start shimmying toward the car.

I'll do the slow dancing though. The simple step to one side and then step to the other. Or just stand there and do the hug-n-sway. That I can do. I'm really good at that... at least my husband thinks so. (I, fortunately, married a man who can't cut a rug either, so it works out nicely.)

Oh, I also do a mean chicken dance when entirely intoxicated. But that's about it.

No, I just don't have the sexy wiggly hips and the ability to let the rhythm take over that some people seem to. And I'm ok with that... now.

In college I lived in Florida with my roommate, Lilly, who definitely had dancing down pat. She was from St Maarten and had rhythm coming out her eyeballs. One night she wanted to go out dancing and I had to admit that I couldn't dance and would rather do something else that evening... (my calculus homework? get a tooth pulled? slam my hand in a door repeatedly?). But she was pretty insistent, so we got dressed up and went out anyway. We danced our hearts out for a couple of hours and then took a break to get a drink. And as we were sitting there sweating and sipping, she turned to me and said in her broken english island accent, "Yah Pen, you're right... you really can't dance," and I was totally and utterly mortified. (Had she been thinking that the whole time we danced?!) But I laughed as I sat there blushing and told her that I'd told her so.

And I really haven't danced since.

Until last week, when my sister asked me to do a zumba class with her. (My sister is a born dancer... she's graceful, care-free and has those wiggly hips to boot.) She said that she'd do a yoga class with me which is outside of her comfort zone, if I'd do a dance class with her, which is outside of mine. And I stupidly agreed to this exchange. Why not give it a whirl, right? Maybe I'd become a great dancer in the last decade.


I lasted 20 minutes. At each step, I was going the opposite direction from everyone else in class. I tripped over my feet. I even knocked into a wall at one point. (It came out of nowhere!) And those sexy wiggly hips? Um, no... Still haven't grown those. Luckily my sister is pregnant and was super tired, so she was ok with us leaving half way through class. We bought waters on the way out and laughed at ourselves -- well, mainly at me.

I showed up back at home and Colin looked surprised that I was back so early. And I just said, "I'm going to go shower. I tip my hat to those people who can dance." And then I thought... it's because I use phrases like "tip my hat". Anyone nerdy enough to say stuff like that without a second thought is not allowed to dance. It's just against the rules.

And he turned back to his book, nodded and said, "Indeed, Lope. Indeed."

...sigh... I love that man.