These are my dancing shoes. And they have a story to tell. And after you read it you may wonder how all these stories happen to me. I often (like every day) wonder that myself. Maybe it’s to give me material for my blog. Who knows?
So, as you can see, these aren’t real practical dancing shoes. As a matter-of-fact, you may have been thinking that all along as you read the last paragraph, or maybe even the title, then looked at the picture.
Truth is, I don’t really have any good dancing shoes, except maybe the pair of ballet flats I’ve been wearing most times. But as Andy and I and our friends take group dancing lessons, my flats look un-flat-ering. I can see it in those big huge mirrors we get to look in. I wanted a little lift. Plus I was trying to do a make-shift angel costume for the Halloween dance and these were the only white shoes I had.
By the end of the night I was sorry I tried to be an angel. These shoes were a disaster. My feet haven’t been that sore in ages. I had to stop dancing. I never wear heels, never even put on these shoes again after the first time I wore them. Left them in my closet and would think, yeah, you’re cute and delicate and I can see why I bought you. Don’t know if I’ll ever wear you again but since you are my only white pair of shoes, you get to stay.
And so, their unique whiteness got them chosen last night, which then lead to the story. Oh yeah. The story….
A couple of times during the evening, as we were learning new steps, we were asked to change partners. And the instructor was really trying to get us ladies not to reverse lead. That seems to be a real hard thing for us ladies not to do. Since we are usually moving backwards, this is a very important thing to learn.
So, for the first chapter of this story, I was dancing with another partner. And all was going well. Until we got too close to the couple behind us and the heel of one of my shoes went right on top of the man’s foot. Ouch. He was really gracious about it, although he did mention that the shoes I was wearing had very pointy heels. I think he was also trying to inject humor into the situation, which I appreciated. He also introduced himself to me. His name was Charlie.
Chapter two. We were learning steps to the tango. First the men were taught their steps. All standing in a line, moving along with the instructors. Then it was the ladies’ turn. There were a lot of us spread out and stepping backwards. At least, I thought we were spread out. But on one of my steps backwards, the heel of my dancing shoe went right on top of a ladies foot. And she went down. Big time. She was hurt. This was worse than the Charlie incident. She limped off the dance floor after we helped her up and I followed her.
A man came to tend to her as I was asking her if she was alright. It was Charlie. I connected the dots. “Are you her husband?” I asked incredulously. (You’ve got to be kidding me, of all the people there, I injured both parts of a couple? What are the chances?)
“Yes,” he answered, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh no, I stepped on you both!” I exclaimed.
“Well, at least you are an equal opportunity offender,” he retorted. (I guess he wasn’t mad, although I wasn’t so sure about his wife.)
By the end of the evening, Marty, his wife, was dancing again, after taking some time out and I think I saw her icing her foot. I apologized once again and they told me it was okay and we talked for a bit.
I told them if it was any consolation, my feet were killing me.
“Yeah, those really aren’t very good dancing shoes,” pointed out Charlie’s wife.
Touche, Marty. I deserved that one.