Yeah. That went well.

Friend of mind decided it'd be fun to take ballroom dancing class.  She found a "drop-in" class we could attend for $15.  Teaching "American Waltz."  Anyone can drop in, and you just rotate partners every minute or so.  OK, why the hell not?

(I'll tell you why the hell not.  In the lobby, the dance studio had water and coffee.  No damn breath mints.  And they should be mandatory for dancing with strangers.  Seriously, this one dude's breath was so bad, he asked why I was standing so far away from him in hold.  "Are you religious?" he asked.   No, I just have a functioning olfactory system.)

Here's how it works:  you can drop in whenever you want.  Every month they teach the same dance each week.  Eagle-eyed readers will realize that we were showing up on week four of American Waltz, although we were pretty rank beginners.  But I can pick up basic steps pretty quick, and was doing quite well until she threw in something at the end from a more advanced class.  (I got that eventually -- but only with about half the partners.)


So, yeah, I thought it went pretty well, considering.


Until such time as, after class, walking back to the car, I missed my footing, fell on the curb, whereupon a very smart instinct (which I wasn't aware I had) took over and executed a roll, so I landed on my backside rather than my front.  Commented to the couple (in front of whose car I performed this maneuver), "Yeah, I meant to do that."



Smooth move, Ginger.