Over the years, close friends have often heard me utter this Madwoman Adage: "It is easier to find a good husband than a good dance partner." I actually think the former is rather difficult and the latter, nearly impossible. And so I make do by showing up to classes alone, by preferring dance styles that permit me to dance by myself, and by getting creative.
By "getting creative," I mean that a dance partner is really just a counterpoint, and sometimes substitutions are possible. For example, I've done the Argentine Tango with invisible dance partners, practiced spins with the load-bearing support pole in the basement, and on occasion, relied on a broom here or there for balance.
That's right; sometimes I prefer the company of Thin Air, Cold Metal, and Cleaning Supplies to the company of "real" men. Of the "real" men with whom I've had the "pleasure" of dancing, they really run the gamut:
- I once tangoed with an 82-year-old man (I remember this clearly because at the time, when I told him I was 28, he remarked that we were the same age, just backwards!) who navigated me across the room like he was driving an old Buick down a dirt road.
- I have salsed with Y chromosomes so drenched in cologne that I always had to shower immediately afterwards to rid myself of the "Scent of Man."
- Sometimes my dance partners have hailed from foreign countries with clearly different concepts of personal hygiene and B.O.
My most recent dance partner came to me when I was at my parents' home watching infommercials on cable TV. Not having cable myself, I was amazed at the extraordinary proliferation of fat-reducing devices being offered through the television. In my hay day, I would have considered myself somewhat of an expert on current hot products as my family is partial to infommercial products, the area of exercise equipment being no exception. My big brother has owned such contraptions as the Gravity Edge and Chuck Norris' famous Total Gym. Here is where I must sheepishly admit that I myself have personally owned the Jackie Chan Cable Flex System and Cheryl Ladd's Body Slide. Of DVDs, I have done Tae Bo with Billy Blanks and marveled at what Pilates has done for Daisy Fuentes.
Suffice it to say, if you look at my family, we're not exactly a group of rock-hard bodies. If there's any living proof that products from TV don't make you lose weight or look better, it would be us. (We do, however, now possess numerous interesting fixtures on which to hang clothes.)
Of the new infommercials I saw during my last visit to the Mothership, the one that I still remember was the Gravity Ball, endorsed by a gymnast Mitch Something. The Gravity Ball looks an awful lot like a medicine ball with the only difference being that it weighs only two pounds. The point is that exercise with this fake wussy medicine ball is supposed to make use of your "core" (a very hot buzz word in fitness) which in turn is supposed to fire up your metabolism. I can't remember the TV promise - something absurd like Three Pounds, Three Inches, In Three Days! As a teenager, I may have fallen for this three-minute BS and its Something-Ninety-Five price tag, but I'm 32 now and wiser (at least in this respect).
It also struck me as fairly idiotic that I would need to buy a special ball to make two pounds. All around the house are things that weigh about two pounds. I pulled a giant tupperware of chicken soup out of the Mothership refrigerator and swung it around in a 360-degree circle to prove this point to my little brother. He agreed.
This morning, I found something in the basement that also fit the bill - a Costco-sized bottle of Liquid Plumber Gel. Not exactly nice and round, but it does have an easy-to-grip handle. So here he is, my new dance partner, who probably falls soundly in the category of Cleaning Supplies (if you look closely at this photo, you can also see the bottom of my other erstwhile dance partner, Cold Metal):
No, he's not much to look at, but the same goes for several of the "real" men with whom I've danced. At least he's going to fire up my "core" and throw my metabolism into light speed! For free! Did I also mention that he "DESTROYS THE CLOG?"
Not that we are on a first-name basis, but if the bottle of Liquid Plumber did have a name, I imagine it would be Bubba.
Bubba, welcome to the Basement.
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