Elizabeth, Let Us Take a Turn About the Room

So last night a friend and I went English country dancing. I admit when I suggested a dance class I was thinking ballet (I could use a little grace – still thinking of the physio who told me I "shambled around like an Orangutan") or maybe even modern dance or tap (the last of which another friend adores). But this friend chose country dancing, and I'll try just about anything once. (Dare I write this on an Internet dating profile or will that make me sound like some kind of call girl? Hmmm. I think I must be going native. I see smuttiness everywhere...)

I should add that I had zero idea what country dancing even was (I know, I know – I'm online all the time already and I should have just clicked over and looked it up, but what fun is that?) She dangled visions of Mr. Darcy in my head. I was skeptical – men are not known for their fondness of group exercise classes of any kind, especially dancing. But a girl can dream.

Good thing I am a (day)dreamer, as there was not a single man – single or otherwise, I might add -- in this class. Plus the friend and I brought the average age down by about 30 years, quite a few pounds, and several cup sizes (and neither of us is exactly Kate Moss in the lack-of-breast department). Still, geeky though it is, I loved it, especially the names of the moves ("hay-stacking"), the titles of the dances (pea-pod something-or-other), and the years they were invented (one was in the time of Charles I, and the other either in James II's reign or that of William and Mary – can't remember the exact date). I enjoyed imagining myself in some sort of fantastic period dress, perhaps at a wedding, and – as someone who is teetering on the edge of returning to dating in the 21st century – I enjoyed the modesty and chasteness of it all. You hold hands (briefly) and you graze shoulders. That's it. (Take that, Mr. Drunk-in-the-Kensington-Piano-Bar.)

I could go on about my little period fantasy, except it wasn't that extensive because frankly, I had to concentrate quite hard. I fear if I'd lived in another century my dance card would have been frightfully empty, thanks to my complete inability to remember my right from my left. (I'm not kidding – I sometimes have to hold my thumb and forefinger out to check which one forms an 'L.')

After dancing, we went to dinner, where friend proceeded to tease me about picking up the guy sitting next to us (who, for the record, was there with a woman who seemed to be his girlfriend) when she (friend) went to the bathroom.

"She was looking daggers at you," my friend said of the Other Woman. "Take it as a compliment – she's jealous."

I confess the idea that I could make anybody jealous both baffles and almost frightens me. It baffles me because, I don't know, it just does. I'm American and a journalist and I work at home a lot of the day – I could pretty much talk to a door knob if it's required (or if I'm desperate), and in fact the original conversation starter (about the rather spectacular-looking dish that had been set down) was directed at the woman. Plus, what guy picks up another woman in front of the woman he's with? (Wait, don't answer that. BN2 does.)

It's frightening because it's just so random and (I think) beyond my control. When I first met my friend O., I walked home from St. Katherine's Docks to Clerkenwell with he and his then-girlfriend (this was by invitation – they were on the verge of splitting up. Which they did off and on for another couple of years). O. and I talked the entire 45-minute walk while she glowered, despite my attempts to include her in the conversation. Weeks later, walking around Victoria Park, O. said bluntly: "If my girlfriend knew I was spending the afternoon with you she'd break up with me. She's jealous of you." It was a hot day and I felt huge and sweaty and more than my then-230-ish pounds – I remembered consciously trying not to breathe too loudly while I kept up with O's rapid pace. I couldn't have felt a threat to anybody even if I tried. Frankly, I still don't.

Home tonight, by the way, because Random Texter No. 2 cancelled on me, like, a half hour before we were supposed to meet up tonight. I was literally about to get on the train. He said he was ill and asked if we could reschedule. I told him he owed me one, and that I hoped he felt better. He responded: "Oh, Beth, we'll laugh about this with our grandchildren." He closed with a kiss, absent from any previous communication. Hmmm.

***

1. 35 pushups, 70 crunches (to make up for none on Wednesday). No Diet Coke!

2. Gratitude list: 1. English country dancing class – hooray for new things, good friends, and fun where you least expect it. 2. Gift of magazines and books from friend. 3. Black Banana Republic cashmere hoodie bought for a mere $35 on one freezing day in Washington DC about 10 days ago – it has been a lifesaver just about every day.