Dance on Air
In the weeks leading up to last Christmas, I heard from everyone (read: family, friends, family friends, roommate, etc) how amazing my Christmas gift from the boyfriend was. I should be so excited, everyone said. “You will love it!”
It. OK, so it’s a thing. I’m a pretty easy person to please, so this could mean anything. We’d added a “no jewelry” clause to the list of gift qualifications between us, so I knew it wasn’t that. He knows buying clothes is risky because I’m difficult to size up. Neither of us have a ton of money, so I couldn’t let my imagination go too far out the window.
Nobody would tell me. I even tried to milk my 11-year-old sister, but even she wouldn’t budge when faced with bribes.
Christmas Eve arrived, and after dinner and family gift exchange with his mom’s side of the family, it was our turn. It was about midnight when we finally returned to his house. His mum was drunk out of her tree, his Dad’s eyes were getting droopy and his brother weakly feigned interest. As I took the lid off the box and read the piece of paper as fast as I could, I burst out laughing.
I’m not sure that was the immediate reaction he was looking for. Everyone else looked over, also confused by my reaction. Once I realized all eyes were on me, I contained my giggles and gave him a goodwill hug for his goodwill gesture. Inside the box was a gift certificate for fancy ballroom dance lessons to take … together!
I had always complained about the movements he made on the dance floor he hopelessly called dancing. I think one night we had even fought about it. It had come to the point where I would go out dancing with my girls and not even wonder if he would join me.
But he sucked up his pride (or what was left of it after I girlfriend-ly destroyed his dancing self esteem) and courageously ventured into the land of low cut shirts (on men!), quick-quick-slow with two left feet.
We have since made it to private lessons with an adorable and hilarious dance instructor about once a week. Which, in itself, is a feat considering his work schedule. [He typically has two weeknights off a week, and that’s it—can you believe it?] We can now foxtrot, tango, waltz, swing, mambo, meringue, rumba and cha cha the basics with relative ease.
We laughed ourselves through most lessons and probably insulted the world of dance with our goofy interpretations, additions and facial expressions. We have even gone out dancing together—and left laughing, not fighting! Nice!
It’s nice to remember these things now and again and remind myself that although he’s got a little bit of grumpy old man in him sometimes, he’s still a very spontaneous, fun and hilarious addition to my life.