Husband Finally in Step With Wife’s Desire to Dance

It was dark when I bolted out the door of the dance club.

Darker than I thought. Colder than I thought. But I was steamed, really steamed, and there was no stopping me.

I had taken just enough time to grab my coat before I made my exit, which was a good thing. The frigid night air hit me like a whack in the face.

Some nameless Chicago street stretched out before me lit only by the smudged glow of infrequent street lights and the dull, ice- covered red of tail lights passing by. If not the cold, the darkness, or the unfamiliarity of my surroundings, common sense should have stopped me. It did not.

I was outta there. These legs, these tap-dancing toes, were not going to sit on the sidelines of the dance floor for one more minute. They were takin’ a walk.

And baby, that’s exactly what they did. Like a steam engine flashing sparks, I hit the track. It was seven long city blocks in 2- inch high heels before my husband and his buddy caught up with me.

“What’s wrong?” my husband asked with the care of one who is about to diffuse a bomb.

“I’m tired of watching everyone else dance fast,” I answered, the sub-zero wind having exhausted my anger to a smolder.

The two men, best friends from high school, nodded sagely, instinctively knowing further conversation was fruitless. The three of us walked the long walk back in silence.

The rest of our party, being the true, lifelong friends that they are, pretended as though nothing unusual had occurred. The festive atmosphere of our rare night out for dinner and dancing, however, lost its warmth when I blew back in the door. It wasn’t long before we were putting on our coats and heading home to pay the baby sitters for less hours than they had anticipated. (I take full blame for throwing ice on that good time.)

Although this angry winter walk occurred long ago, it still stands out in my mind not only for the foolishness of my actions, but because in nearly 35 years of marriage, it remains our most significant (and public) eruption. All because my husband wouldn’t dance fast.

(Looking back, I can only say it must have been a really good oldies song that set off my flash point.)

I have always loved to dance. My husband has not.

As high school sweethearts shuffling around the gymnasium floor draped in each other’s arms during the mid-1960s, our dancing differences didn’t matter much.

Through the years of our married life when the tunes turned fast at a wedding reception, business party or philanthropic event, we’d head to the sidelines, content to visit with friends or grab some refreshments.

When the slow music came on at these occasions, we both meandered to the dance floor for our old cheek-to-cheek two-step, but it was the fast dances that continued to sideline us. I began to feel like a benched basketball player watching all the fun and action on the court.

My feet itched to be out there.

Over the years, to my husband’s credit, he occasionally (albeit reluctantly) tried to dance fast. And although he is a standout athlete and musician, gyrating beside me on the dance floor made him feel like a cork bobbing aimlessly in a windless sea.

“Just move to the music,” I’d say.

“This is stupid,” he’d respond.

Which means that over the decades we’ve not danced together to the Twist, the Monkey, the Swim, the Holly Golly, the disco dancing of the ’80s or the Macarena of the ’90s. Don’t even mention “YMCA.”

(Some would say that we hadn’t missed much, but I guess on that frigid Chicago night, my inner dance self had had enough.)

It wasn’t until the upcoming marriage of our oldest son nearly three years ago that my husband decided to take action. The thought of having to dance in front of more than 200 people must have produced a cold sweat.

“We need to take some dance lessons,” he casually mentioned several months before the wedding.

To say my chair tipped over backwards is an understatement.

“Why?” I asked in astonishment.

“Well, we’re going to have to dance at the wedding,” he said. “And I don’t like doing things I can’t do well.”

“OK,” I answered, refraining from jumping into mid-air and executing a perfect John Travolta spin.

To my further surprise, he’d already done the research and checked out available lessons at a local community college.

By the next day we were signed up.

To my delight, my husband took to the dance lessons like Sammy Sosa to a corked bat. He had met his swinging groove.

Here was something that made sense to him (such as counting and actual steps), not just mindless shaking on the dance floor.

Our dancing began to take shape. Frank Sinatra and Glenn Miller became our new best friends.

“Rock step, slow slow, rock step, slow slow” was our mantra. Amazingly, and before we knew it, we were cruisin’ around the dance floor.

As the weekly lessons went by, we were not only doing the steps, but actually adding turns, twirls and twists. Our dancing confidence climbed.

Whenever the class took a mid-lesson break, my husband was the first on the dance floor as soon as the music started up again, dragging this exhausted wife with him. I’d created a monster.

At home we’d practice, practice, practice. Besides the swing, our repertoire included the waltz and the fox trot.

Round and round the dining room table and across the kitchen floor we’d go; I in faded robe and slippers, he in jeans and flannel.

“Slow, quick, quick slow,” we muttered in time with the beat. We’d circle the porch pool table to the tunes of “Chattanooga Choo Choo” and “Tuxedo Junction.” We’d cruise past the coffee table to “Stardust” and “In the Mood.”

On occasion, we had to pull out our cheat sheet to remember the steps, but on we danced.

Knowing that Dave Mathews, not the Big Band sound of the 1940s, was likely to rule at our son’s reception, we tried our stack of more-modern musicians and delightfully discover that our new dance steps (depending on the tempo and the count) worked just fine.

We could rock step to the Beach Boys and fox trot to the Beatles. We were set.

Or so we thought.

After a beautiful wedding celebration, we found ourselves clueless to the DJ’s mix of music at the reception (even the anniversary waltz was not a waltz.) We couldn’t find our beat, but our son, his new bride, and all their energetic friends did, packing the dance floor and dancing joyously the whole night through.

For once, I was content to watch all that happiness from the sidelines.

Other dancing occasions have come our way, however, and despite a few nervous flutters at the start, we are up and out there. Sometimes, in fact, we are the only ones on the dance floor, which makes us feel a little like Fred and Ginger, until one of us stumbles.

Then we simply stop, laugh, whisper the beat to each other, and start over. The sidelines are no longer part of our dance card.

As our second son’s wedding draws near, we will start our practice regimen again. He and his fiance favor jazz, so perhaps we’ll try a little improvisation to Wynton Marsalis. Who knows?

If all else fails, we can always revert back to our old standby: a slow, shapeless shuffle across the dance floor, arms around each other, cheek to cheek.

I have to admit, it’s still the best.

– Marnie O. Mamminga offers memoir writing programs to various clubs and organizations and also teaches memoir writing classes. For scheduling dates and other details, e-mail her at marnie@@mamminga.com or call (630) 879-7132.