After spending last Friday at a Ballroom Dance competition, cheering for my friends, both amateur and professional, I did, as always, have a brief moment of regret that I hadn’t entered the competition myself. Oh, I have no need or desire to dance publicly, but, oh! those magnificent gowns – sequined, feathered, flowing, and the sexy, strappy, high heeled shoes. The dancers look majestic.Majestic. That’s what I want to be. “Easy enough,” I thought, and having made the decision, I traipsed into the city to the premier dance shoe studio in the country. The salespeople are all dancers of various disciplines, young, lithe, and knowledgeable. You can imagine the reception I got after I schlepped up two steep flights of stairs, looking like their grandmother on life support. But they are, as I said, to a person, nothing if not professional. Instantaneously, one sprightly young man approached me and didn’t crack even a hint of a smile (because, after all, they’re professionals) when I told him I’d like to buy some sexy high-heeled tango shoes. “And not just anytango shoes,” I explained. “They must be Argentine tango shoes.” Well, nowhe was definitely taking me seriously.I tried on, discussed, agonized, took a few turns on their tiny dance floor, and after what must have seemed forever to that poor kid, I finally settled upon a racy pair that have a mind of their own. Laugh if you want to, but when I went for my dance lesson today, wearing my sizzling tango shoes, I could, I’m certain, detect a look on the face of my 25 year old dance teacher. He was wondering, I know, what it would be like to see stretch marks in the moonlight.
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