As you are aware, or would be if you read this post, about three and a half months ago I started a new job. My new job is fabulous. The people I work with are awesome as well. Which is why, when I was invited to a gathering of my co-workers hosted by the doctor that owns the practice, I was happy to go. I was duly warned by one of my co-workers that the doctor likes to dance. And he likes the company of his employees while bustin' his move. I took the warning in stride, because really, who doesn't like to cut a rug once in a while? So, I shouldn't have been surprised when the little party came equipped with a dance instructor. I was, however. The nail biting began when I was informed that participation was not optional.
I enjoy dancing. I have been known to let loose and get my groove on. And the more alcohol I've consumed the groovier I get. But, seeing as this was a work function and I am the newest addition to the team, I had not ingested nearly enough liquid courage to take dance lessons in front of 12 or so of my newly acquired co-workers. Better yet? The dance being taught was the Samba. Have I mentioned before that I am the klutziest person I know? That I have very little rhythm? That I am divinely uncoordinated? Oh yes, hand to God. And participation was not optional.
I lined up opposite my husband (spouses were invited), said a prayer to the god of dance and fiercely concentrated on the feet of the little man instructing us. I tried. I really did. If I had of been in the comfort of my own home, or even a private lesson and perhaps a month to practice, I may have been able to execute and combine the 3 steps he taught us. I imagine what I produced looked something like I had suffered a seizure standing up. To add insult to injury, my husband is like liquid on the dance floor. Particularly any version of Latin dance. The instructor congratulated me on my husband's capacity. My co-workers were awed by his grace. My only saving grace? His suave effectively hid my ineptitude.
You think this would have been the end of this nightmare. You would be wrong. The other doctor at the practice was also in attendance. Being a little bit older, perhaps a little more mild mannered, his choice of dance was a little different. In fact, he was obliged to provide his own Cd with the music required for his lesson. Don't worry. I make it sound as though he taught us the Waltz and insisted we only touch at the arms, that isn't the case. No. The truth is much worse. He taught us the bunny hop. While the family in the link is very cute, I beg you to imagine doing this with a group of people you have known for approximately 8 weeks. Also, the family in the link are holding each other at the shoulder, we held each other at the waist. Why was I not informed of my options? You understand my unease. Aaaand, I'm, uh...top heavy. Bouncing around is not conducive to comfort when you are blessed with breasts. Especially when you are ill prepared.
Let's add it all up, shall we? Near strangers + divinely uncoordinated me + unfairly coordinated husband + big boobs + dance lessons = incredible embarrassment. Thankfully, my embarrassment seems to be my own. Mr. Sprite is (usually) remarkably good humoured; he was unfazed by my lack of grace. My co-workers were equally accepting; none of them were horrified by inelegant display. Shocking, isn't it? That no one but myself was put off. It always comes as a bit of a surprise when I am reminded once again that the world doesn't revolve around me. But, know this: I will practice those three steps until I have perfected them and I will don a garment capable of keeping the girls in check. And next time, I won't be so god damned uptight.