Congratulations to contest winner Marcy Cox.
As far as I’m concerned, you’re never too old to wear pink fringe, although some folks may dispute this statement after watching my video. And if performing a cha-cha solo and shaking my booty helps sell books, then I’m in!
My ballroom journey began a few years ago. Having unsuccessfully dragged an ex-husband or two to ballroom dance classes (unsuccessful being defined by the word “ex”), my dream of learning ballroom dancing remained unfulfilled. Mesmerized by images of actors, singers, and athletes performing on Dancing with the Stars, I thought if Emmett Smith and Donald Driver could waltz across the floor in size fifteen shoes, how hard could it be? If I couldn’t at least keep up with Carson Kressley, I would hand over my feather boa.
To him!
Armed with a free coupon and shiny new satin heels, I signed up for a private lesson, assuming my natural sense of rhythm would instantly prove me a star.
Wrong. Sure the rules say guys are supposed to lead, but everyone knows women learn dance steps faster. But in ballroom dance, the woman has to follow, even if her partner has no sense of rhythm and waltzes to tango music. Eventually, I realized it wasn’t so bad letting someone else be in charge. Once I stopped fighting, I started gliding.
After somewhat mastering the smooth dances, we moved on to the smoldering Latin dances. Since my hips remain titanium free, I figured rumba and cha-cha would be a piece of shortcake for me. Nope. Evidently my hips only swivel in one dimension. Not that anyone has ever complained. But Latin dances require Cuban motion: a three- dimensional figure eight using your hips. It turns out practicing my rumba walk down the local Safeway’s aisles makes grocery shopping very entertaining. Especially for the other shoppers.
My teacher was amazed that I learned my lessons so quickly. Unfortunately, I forgot them even faster. After instructing me in the same steps four weeks in a row, I asked if our lessons reminded him of the movie Ground Hog Day. He smiled and replied, “Give it time.”
He was right. I’ve not only mastered the art of following, my short-term memory has improved so dramatically I may try out for Jeopardy. My hips are now awesome in several dimensions, and they only creak occasionally. While it’s unlikely I’ll ever out swivel Karina Smirnoff, Gladys Knight better watch out. Shoot. I might even take on all of the Pips!
Although most of my dance partners make me feel as graceful as Ginger Rogers, occasionally I have a Three Stooges moment, much like my protagonist, Laurel McKay. In Dying for a Dance, she trips her instructor and crashes into a pair of dancers, breaking the heel of her shoe in the process. It’s amazing how much she and I have in common. Fortunately I’ve never stumbled over a dead dancer.
Yet.
Either way I’m having a grand time. And if I have to don pink fringe to sell a few books, why not? If you can’t have fun as an author then you’re in the wrong line of work!
So how far will you go to sell books? Is there a secret hobby you’ve been dying to try?
Leave a comment by midnight May 15, and you’ll be eligible to win an 8 inch chocolate stiletto (yum yum) or if that doesn’t entice you, a $20 gift certificate of your choice.