My Lenten Sacrifice, Ch. 1: Honey, I have a surprise for you!

Karen went out of town on business in early January. She called one night and I said "Honey, I have a little surprise for you." And of course her response was, "You made the bed?"

When she returned home a couple of days later, she was particularly pleased to find not only the bed made (I can take a hint, after all), but also that I had signed us up for ballroom dancing lessons.

I'm not really sure what possessed me. I'm pretty certain it's not because I have Emmit's thighs.

We started our lessons last Friday night and will be attempting to dance under tutelage for the next three Friday nights. (I opted for the four-Friday February package instead of the five-Friday March deal ... it was the same amount, fee-wise, but my estimation, I got off a heckuva lot cheaper not having to go a fifth night.)

The ballroom was packed with probably 50 people. Twenty-five who wanted to be there and 25 who had to be there. And I must say that after just one session of a little over an hour I can say one thing with absolute certainty: I am totally sick of hearing the words, "Elbow up! Elbow up! Elbow up!"

When you are a ballroom dancer, it is apparently necessary to keep the elbow of your right arm up and the hand at the end of that right arm firmly planted in your wife's shoulder blade so she'll know you're the boss. That's what Karen said anyway.

But it was my left hand that I was more worried about than my right elbow. Because even if you have no foot coordination at all on the dance floor, if you keep your left arm and hand elevated, you at least LOOK like you know what you're doing. The higher you keep it up, the snobbier and better you look.

The one exception I guess would be the time when, as we were dancing, the instructor asked us all if we had ever waltzed before. And I answered by raising my left hand. And then I forgot to put it back down. So, lesson 1: It is possible to hold your left hand up too high and if you do, you, frankly, look like you can't dance and answer a question at the same time. Which I can't.

I wore my hiking boots to the first lesson; Karen wore tennis shoes. It was fairly obvious we'd never danced before, save for some two-stepping at selected (read: any) country-western bars early in married life.

I was first prompted to sign us up for ballroom dance lessons when Karen made the statement, "We never do anything fun anymore." Again, I can take a hint, if given enough information.

I will strive to keep you up to date on this little slice of marital bliss we are enjoying, because I know that it is through the emotion that comes with pain and agony that the best and most-heartfelt writing originates. I feel if I can turn the heartbreak of these lessons into a few chuckles for you along the way, I'll make my tuition fee back and can claim ballroom dance as a business expense. And that way we're all winners.

If that doesn't work, the best way to look at the occasion of dancing amid 48 strangers for the next three Friday nights is this: it's my lenten sacrifice. I am giving up my dignity in order to make my wife happy.

What a guy I must be, eh?

Comments

[Janie]

Awesome, Jimmy! We wanted to do that, but...uhhhh....we forgot!!! Keep us posted.

[Wallace]

What great transgression did you commit that resulted in you having to resort to this!! ??

[Jimmy]

Julie ... it's really not a lot of fun to watch. Think trainwreck.

Wallace. I believe me being in this class will satisfy my time requirement in purgatory.

[gwynne]

"We never do anything fun anymore."

If it's fun she wants, why not just take her out driving on the icy roads (or sidewalks) with the video camera? ;-)

[Cowtown Pattie]

Awww, how sweet!

But, as much as the ballroom dancing looks ever so graceful, I'll take a nice Texas two-step and some Light Crust Doughboy music any day...