McFoxtrot

People often speculate as to why the thought of getting married is so terrifing to many men. They say it's a fear of committmet, or Peter Pan syndrome. Or the fear of having one's most precious belongings (i.e., that special Corona Light display case he found in a dumpster behind the liquor store)put "into storage" in the dumpster from which it came. The real reason that the word 'wedding' sends soul-crushing chills down the spines of most men can be summarized in two words: dance lessons.

Last night, my fiance Paul and I had our fourth dance lesson at Fred Astaire (Franchised) Dance Studio. I'm not sure why the "franchised" part is such an integral part of their marketing scheme; maybe they think it reminds people of hamburgers. If they could figure out how to put in a drive-thru window, I think the concept would really take off. "Yes, uh, I'd like a McFlurry and a Big Mac, and a side of Tango lessons." (Static Fuzz) "Would you like a Foxtrot with that for only an additional ..."

So far, Paul's doing great, and has gone along with the whole thing with relatively few complaints, although I know that he wants to take dance lessons about as much as I want to take lessons in how to play video games. Lucky for me, nobody has thought to have a "First Video Game" at a wedding, although I bet this would be the cover story of Modern Groom magazine, in the weird parallel universe where such a thing exists.

All of the teachers at the Fred Astaire (Franchised) Dance Studio are from Russia, which contributes to the feeling that the whole scene should be in black and white with English subtitles. It's very much like an outtake from some European arthouse movie that might also feature long close-ups of an old man dressed like a clown and crying. The words "existential tightrope" and "the emotional isolation of the bourgeoisie" would no doubt be featured prominently in the reviews.

In the waiting room of the Fred Astaire (Franchised) Dance Studio, most the guys look like they're about to go in for a colonoscopy. The majority of men do not come willingly to take dance lessons, although it's possible that some of them are there because they have a genuine interest in getting out of the doghouse. With the middle-aged couples, this seems particularly true ... After being caught in a compromising position with a she-male "massage therapist," Bob's wife gives him an ultimatum: either a nasty divorce where she keeps house in the Hamptons, the midlife-crisis Porsche, and all of his clothing, OR ... a full series of 25 hour-long dance lessons at the Fred Astaire (Franchised) Dance Studio. Following a good deal of soul-searching, and at the urging of his attorney and financial advisor, Bob decides to do the foxtrot.

I'm sure I'm not the world's easiest dance partner, as I have a terrible tendancy to back-lead, as a result of having taken approximately 15,000 dance lessons. Like many girls, my mother started me in dance classes when I was just a small fetus (but the violin lessons didn't start until shortly after I was born), so I get a bit impatient sometimes.

Still, Paul has been particularly nice about the whole thing, and he's picked up the steps pretty quickly, and doesn't even hold his hands to his throat and make gagging noises when they play the occasional song by Celine Dion. Hopefully, this isn't due to some terrible guilt involving any combination of donkeys, hookers and barbituates following his recent trip to Tiajuana. At any rate, I figure I should make the best of it, because when/if I ever have another opportunity to make him take dance lessons, we might have to get a divorce instead.