A couple of weeks ago Mr. Darcy and I had our first dance lesson in preparation for our wedding. Because of course I’d want us to dance to a fast-paced swing song. That is SO like me. So, I bought a group on type thing for Arthur Murray lessons. The deal is for three 30 minute private lessons, two one hour group classes, and one practice session. The moment you walk in they were all over us with friendliness and a not-so-subtle sales pitch. The instructors all look like they are about to take the stage on Dancing with the Stars– sparkles, fringe, lots of make up, and tons of glistening sweat.
Our teacher, a young girl in a very tight tank top and fringed skirt with super high heels, was very patient and encouraging. She even put me in my place about 10 minutes into the lesson which I. . .respect her for even if a small piece of me resented her for her distracting beauty. I’ve taken swing classes before but learned as the lead not the follower which is why I wanted to take lessons with Darcy so he could have someone else show him how to lead me (an exercise in futility? I hope not!). I was giving him encouragement and feedback and she basically was like “I’ll give him the instruction thankyouverymuch.”
Despite it being a “private” lesson, there was only one dance floor at the studio which meant we just got one-on-one attention from an instructor while other people danced around us. There was a class going on as well as two other private lessons. Why they asked us to bring a copy of our first dance song escapes me. When would they put it on when everyone was dancing to the same music? I can see now that this “deal” might not be what we need to get us up to snuff for the wedding day.
During the lesson she had me close my eyes and with my hands on Mr. Darcy’s shoulders, I followed him back and forth across the dance floor as he led me. It actually helped to close my eyes. We also learned the rock step in a couple different formations. The thirty minutes went by fast, though Mr. Darcy might beg to differ. As we wrapped up the lesson and looked at our calendars to book the next one, Ms. Pretty Fringe said, “Oh! You should just stay because there is a swing class in an hour and a half. It will be great for your muscle memory!” I looked at Darcy who looked at me. We had plans to go to a bbq later that night. Mr. Darcy was already feeling over his limit with social obligations. I hesitated, trying to be nice, “Well. . . we kind of have plans so. . .” Then Darcy pipes up, “Well if you want to. . . “ totally misreading my let down and I shot him a look that said “WTF!?” because he was sabotaging our escape route. She pushed a little more but I got firm and said no.
“Okay then, how about next Friday.”
“Ohhh, no I can’t.”
“Um. . . I am having surgery.”
“Oh! What kind of surgery?”
I was taken aback. I knew this chick for 45 minutes and she asked me such a personal question. I tried to downplay it without saying CERVIX in the dance studio. I think I managed to circle around the subject without ever saying what the surgery was for. I should have just been blunt and shut her down.
We somehow agreed to a late Tuesday night class but I knew I’d be calling to reschedule. I just wanted to get the heck out of there. Mr. Darcy and I have agreed to stand our ground. We’re not going to get manipulated into paying for more classes. A “private” lesson with them runs over $100 which is what we paid for our entire deal.