Nerdy dancing...

E and I are taking dance lessons.

Yuppers.

With my parents, too.

How adorable are we?

(Very adorable.)

We’re taking this class Tuesday nights through the community college—Ballroom Basics, which is actually taught by the couple who will be DJing our wedding. (So, double bonus.) My mom thought it’d be fun, and my dad even agreed to it. Eric was surprisingly easy to win over to the idea, as well, and I’m here to tell you, we even survived our first lesson this week.

Applause, applause.

I’m not so good at the dancing thing. (Read: I do NOT dance.) I don’t like not knowing what I’m doing, and I certainly don’t like making a fool of myself.

So E kept having to remind me to smile. And he often brought up our commitment to always have the most fun of anyone in any given situation.

The thing is, I had to concentrate really hard. And that occupied all my faculties, leaving no resources or awareness with which to smile or carry on in the general style of banter and goofiness in which Eric and me so often exist.

The nice thing is, we weren’t the worst couple out there.

Though I rarely looked up from my feet or away from Eric’s face to check out our classmates, I did stop dead in my tracks at least once to gawk at a particularly hopeless couple.

And I do, of course, mean my parents.

My dad was rigid and all business (this is where I get it from) but my mom couldn’t keep herself from leading or tangling up their feet. At one point, we actually saw dad take a firm grip on mom’s sweater and tug her around in the proper direction. He said that was the only effective method. Well, it was second only to simply letting her lead, he says.

So, dance lessons have the potential to be a really good time. Or a super miserable battle against my pride. I pray it’s the former, and that we’ll really wow you with our cha cha and foxtrot at the reception!