Shake It, Shake It, Baby

Dirty Dancing was faaaantastic. It is safe (although horrifically corny, I'll grant you) to say that we all had the time of our life. There was general agreement that Johnny's trousers were not tight enough, Baby had done a miraculous job of producing a curled replica of Jennifer Gray's mop and that generally it was a ten out of ten.

But that's not what I am here to talk to you about - as I have already bored everyone else with my ceaseless Dirty Dancing harping, I am instead here to tell you about the return of the booty shaker.

My older sister and I arrived at the dance studio place about 15 minutes early. Walked through the door to be greeted by a particularly friendly gentleman. “Gosh, you’re almost the same height”. Then in my direction, “Just how tall are you…gosh, aren’t you lucky, I’d love to be a bit taller. I have big hair and big heels, which makes me over six foot, but when I haven’t got my heels on and have flat hair everyone comments on how short I am”. Erm. Ok. But he’s a nice man, he shows us to the room we’ll be shaking our booties in and gives us a class timetable.

So we sit down, a little sweaty, as we’d power walked there, thinking it was a bit further away than it was, and find ourselves listening to the tinkle, tinkle of a piano and a high pitched French voice barking out orders. This, on further inspection, turned out to be the beginners’ ballet class (beginners does not mean three year old little boys and girls… oh no – fully grown adult women and men, bouncing about the room, bending knees and pointing toes, surreal, but somewhat inviting).

Peering around us, we see a picture advertising our class. It is of a person doing a one-handed handstand. Hmm, have I let myself in for something a whole lot more complicated than my last booty shaking class? At this point, people start arriving and my sister and I notice that the class is going to be taught by a man – who shows up looking fit and urban moments later. We are both getting a bit nervous – which prompts the nervous giggles. We consider cutting our losses and pretending that we’re here to wait for our friend to come out of the ballet class.

This plan is foiled by the ballet teacher. The class has ended and everyone has filed out and is paying her, singling out my sister and I she asks in tones you wouldn’t mess with – aren’t you going into the next class? She may be five foot very little, but she certainly scared us out of our seats and into the studio. It seems everyone but us has done several terms, until one other lone new girl arrives. I can’t help thinking that at least there were two of us…

But all fears aside, the class was pretty good. I’m not sure my flailing arms and slow feet were a particularly alluring sight, and the teacher did single me out as the problem child. He kept making comments like “Great, you’re all doing fine, just a little more practice and you’ll be there”, whilst giving my reflection significant “get your act together, you’re letting the rest of the class down” looks.

Hmph.