Dance, Princess, Dance!

I signed the The Funasaurus and me up for dance lessons on Saturday. For five hours of an intensive swing lesson. I had grand visions of jump jivin’ with my baby. And for once, I would be the coordinated one. For once, I would catch on quicker (mostly because I’ve taken swing lessons before, and The Funasaurus identified the dance as “the one where you throw the girl around”) and would feel like I was good at something.

Ha ha.

That was before we arrived at the Take-You-Down-a-Notch-Biyatch-dance-studio.

The morning actually went o.k. We learned basic swing steps, *yawn* so-o-o-o easy, and basic lindy hop, which was fairly simple. Then there was a lunch break, and we were offered the option of ordering off of a menu from the hippie-dippie restaurant downstairs. I took one look at the meat-and-potatoes-lovin’ Funasaurus, and thought, “unlikely!” and that thought was confirmed as I looked through the okra and tofu-laden menu, until I arrived at the last section, “sandwiches and burgers.” Well, hello! I stood in line, and ordered two cheeseburgers from the dread-locked waitress in her hemp apron. She stared at me like she had just finished off her fifth joint, and then managed to say, “We don’t serve meat.”

???

“But, your menu…?” I said, pointing to the option, CHEESEBURGER.

“Well, we’re out of meat, right now. We might have some elk.”

“Elk? Like an elk burger?”

“No, there aren’t any burgers.”

I was thoroughly confused, and annoyed, so we vowed to smear a Chicken McNugget or two in her hemp apron before the day was over, and headed off to Good Times.

When we came back, they tried to teach us the charleston, and that is about where my shit came apart.

The dance made NO sense to me, whatsoever.

I tried and tried, but we fell waaaay behind the rest of the class (and when that’s almost 100 other equally inept people, that is seriously behind) and finally The Funasaurus had to say, “Don’t worry about them, let’s go back to the basic” and he SHOWED ME HOW TO DO IT and then I decided I was Done.

So we left mid dah-dah-dada-dah and found a bar. And I drowned my dancing sorrows in some cheap house red, and felt much better.

The rest of the weekend we did not bring up dancing at all. But I think we have come to a silent agreement that we will sway back and forth, a la junior high, for our first dance as a married couple. Either that or break out some Ludacris. Then people like my grandmother will be too busy trying to figure out why I've got hoes in different area codes to notice that I am not dancing anything with "steps."