Seduced by Sequins & Ballroom Bods

Chuckle #504 | March 27th, 2013

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Thanks to some extended mother-in-law visits, I’ve developed a deep appreciation for Dancing with the Stars - and not just for the skimpy costumes and buff guys.  Ballroom dance is a tough sport.  And now that I’ve actually seen a live Pro-Am ballroom dance competition - featuring Latin dances - I’m even more impressed.  Ballroom dancing is Hot! Hot! Hot! 

In fact, there was so much ‘steam heat’ in the ballroom that they handed out fans.

It’s hard to believe that watching other couples rhumba is both socially acceptable and entirely legal, while peep shows and certain types of massage parlors are not.  I got so hot under the collar at one point that I nearly jumped up onto the dance floor myself, until I pictured my Irish/English booty trying to salsa.

If I’m really going to ‘do’ ballroom, I suppose I’d better take a few lessons before I lay it all out in public - preferably from a smoldering Latino, Antonio Banderas type.  As soon as I’ve got it down, I will of course teach my smoldering hot Jewish husband everything I’ve learned.

And don’t tell me that’s an oxymoron.  You haven’t seen my husband dance the hora.

Dance lessons are one thing, but an actual dance competition is another.  I lack the cojones to sign-up for a Pro-Am.  Even if I developed some bona fide skills, there’s that ‘tiny costume’ issue.  If you’ve seen Dancing with the Stars, you know that ballroom dance outfits consist primarily of a few strategically placed tassels connected by fishing line.  

Not a good look for me even under non-jiggling circumstances.

When your body is moving in ways that it hasn’t moved since traveling through the birth canal, even superglue might not be enough to keep those five critical sequins in place.  Some form of wardrobe malfunction is almost guaranteed.  In ballroom dance, this kind of ‘indecent exposure’ happens all the time.  (Hence the free fans.)

But despite these known occupational hazards, no dancers wear Spanx, and very few seem to wear any undergarments at all.  There’s just no place to put them.  This means a lot of exposed flesh.   I’m not sure I could own my love handles the way some women dancers do.  I have too many inhibitions, a touch of Catholic repression, and not nearly enough tolerance for optional hair removal.

That’s a lot of baggage to overcome without the safety net of a girdle, or, at the very least, a thong.  The key to my ballroom future might be to start out conservatively.  

Here’s my plan:

Step one:  Get some outfits.  A second hand EBay ballroom dress for me and the ‘guy’ equivalent for my husband.  (This would be a black shirt that opens to the waist to expose a completely hairless, nubile chest.)  I will simultaneously purchase 5 gallons of Nair at twelve different stores and insist, if asked, that I am not building a homemade bomb.  We can wear our new stuff around the house and gradually get more comfortable with our ‘ballroom’ selves.

Step two:  Couples lessons and channeling our inner Brigitte Bardot and Julio Iglesias.

Step three:  Local salsa clubs and the inevitable feelings of inadequacy.

Step four:  Return to wearing the outfits in the house, and if necessary, the bedroom, to restore confidence.  

I assume we’ll be repeating steps 2-4 until our hips begin to loosen up and we build some mambo muscle memory.  Truthfully, I don’t expect us to ever achieve any competitive proficiency in Latin dance, but we’ll sure have fun dressing the part.   

And as far as dance competitions go, watching the action isn’t so bad.  At least now I know to bring my own fan. 

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