Too left feat

"This is the part where you..."

I've been hitting up a few dance classes lately, on my weeks off. Apparently I'm one of those rare male cats that doesn't have a problem with self-awareness and dignity, and likes to flail my arms and legs around semi-synchronized to a beat. Last week I went to a Ceroc, or French Latin Jive, dance class, and it turned into a memorable night for more than a few reasons.

Ceroc is a partnered dance, part ballroom, part dirty dancing. It's fun for both the guy and the girl - lots of twirling, it's fairly open-ended and can be danced to anything in 4/4. The trouble with any partnered dance for the men, of course, is that they have to lead - so on top of remembering the steps, you have to improv on the spot what the hell you actually want to do. So after a while, a rookie like me starts hearing a lot of this -

"This is the part where you..."

I mean, it's hard enough for a guy to co-ordinate his mind and his mouth when in front of an attractive stranger, let alone spontaneously co-ordinate a series of elaborate physical movements in time and in reasonable style without repeating himself in close physical proximity to an attractive stranger who's paid $15 to learn how to dance.

"This is the part where you..."

But I've found Ceroc to be a lot of fun, so we persist. It's social - you meet different types. There are, naturally, a few semi-pro dancers who look like pure money on the floor. We try to avoid the dull glaze in their eyes when it's their turn to dance with us (everyone has to rotate partners around during the class). There are, thankfully, a few ladies of our age and dancing experience around too. We joke about tripping over own feet and the pros and cons of using your shoulders in a body roll. There is, almost inevitably, at least one older lady with latent exhibitionism, who tries to lead you, and we try to avoid her lunging and flailing limbs as she puts on her own one-woman cabaret show.

Then there's a couple of middle-aged ladies who've come for a good time, and they're living it up, giggling like schoolgirls about how "slutty" they can make their moves. They're having a ball, giving each other high fives, and it's fun to dance with them. I find myself dancing with one of the pair, we'll call her Mrs Robinson for now. She's got a slim build, and dressed tastefully in a green skirt that has just the right amount of swish for the twirl. The years show a little bit on her face but she's still pretty. She's enjoying the move we just learnt, a twirling, twisting move aptly named the pretzel, and we're about to move into a section where the lady freestyles a bit. I tell her this is the bit where she boogies (she knows this anyway, she's been whooping this section up with her friend all night anyway).

"This is the part where you sex me up," says Mrs Robinson.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. HOLD UP. What the hell did she just say?

I'm panicking. I'm not sure if she's just kidding around, or if she actually, you know, wants me to make coffee and get grindin'. I take a quick look at her hands. No rings. Crap. No help from that quarter. I almost wish I was dancing with the exhibitionist, I could probably stop dancing, go get a drink and she wouldn't notice. Crap crap crap crap what's a gentleman to do crap although it's been like forever since I've heard those words from a women never in fact and then I woke up and it was all a dream...

No. Actually, the song ended, and thank god for the finite-ness of the Sugababes meme-like "Push the button."

"This is the part where..."

On my way home, I wonder about Mrs Robinson - whether she was in fact Mrs Robinson, or just Ms Robinson, and why. In the end, I decided it's just nice that she had some fun on a Friday night. And it's nice that I almost suffered a small stroke.

"Mrs Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?"