 He and
I have always had our separate interests, but we are so
different that sometimes we need to put some real effort into
finding something that will bring us together for an hour or two.
Something other than baby-making, that is. That is an activity for
which we certainly don't need any more practice.
You see, I'm the arts, crafts and cultural part of our twosome,
and he is the epitome of the absent-minded professor. You could put
us both in the same situation: say, a car accident. My husband would
be plotting angles, mass and velocity to prove that the accident
wasn't his fault. I, on the other hand, would stare at the mixture
of antifreeze, oil and sparkling broken glass and think how
beautiful it was when the sunlight hit it just so.
There was a time a few years ago when I talked my husband into
taking dancing lessons with me. Not just the two-step or
line-dancing, mind you. I'm talking ballroom dancing. At first I
didn't think he would agree. He's not the ballroom dancing type. I
told him that I wanted to learn because I don't want to be
embarrassed when one of our children gets married and we are
required to dance at the reception.
When we got married, back in the last millennium, learning how to
dance never entered our minds. In fact, we were quite shocked to
learn that the German oom-pah-pah band that we hired for the
occasion would require us to dance. I know, I know, how very
strange. But what could we do? You can't fire a band in the middle
of your wedding reception.
So we gamely locked our arms around each other as if we were in
the back seat of his car, and slowly moved around the dance floor in
no particular pattern. The only thing that resembled a waltz in this
parody was the fact that both of us were determined not to step on
the other's toes.
After the waltz ended, the band picked it up a notch and swung
into a rollicking polka. My new husband and I had such a look of
dismay and backed away from each other so fast, spectators probably
thought that one of us suddenly passed a particularly malodorous
pocket of gas.
[to top of second column]
 |
 We survived our wedding, of course, and as for that travesty of a
first dance, well, we could be excused because we were young, in
love and providing free food to the attendees.
When any of our children marry, however, we will be expected to
dance and dance well. So we went to the first class determined that
we would be the best darn ballroom dancers they ever saw.
The building was a fanciful building in a not-too-savory section
of town. It was made up to look like a palace, but the aqua and pink
paint put me in mind of a Miami brothel. We went inside and found
that we were the only people under 60 in the joint. Not that we have
anything against old people. In fact, I aspire to be one someday.
We danced together with a trainer for a half-hour and then joined
the others. The next trainer decided that no one should stay with
the same partner for more than 60 seconds. Like a baton in a geezer
relay race, I found myself passed from one 70-year-old Don Juan
wannabe to another, each one trying out his special
never-been-known-to-fail leer on the new young chick.
When we left this geriatric pickup joint later that evening, my
husband declared that he's never smelled so much cheap perfume or
been fondled by so many old ladies since he stumbled into a Red Hat
convention on New Year's Eve.
We agreed that when it came time for our children to marry, we
would pay them to elope.
[By LAURA SNYDER]
Laura Snyder is a nationally syndicated columnist,
author and speaker. You can reach her at
lsnyder@lauraonlife.com
or visit www.lauraonlife.com
for more info. |
