God Bless Evan at Fred Astaire Dance Studio in Bloomfield Hills who, for some reason, believes that there is a Tiny Dancer in me fighting to get out. Somehow I am competing in two Dancing with the Local Stars-type competitions this fall and Evan has partnered me with Tino, the Best Dancer In The Whole Wide World (no, really, Google it, he's got about a million national titles) who I think will manage to manipulate me around the floor in some version of The Hustle that won't look too bad as long as I can remember where my feet go. Poor Tino. I told him my daughter is a figure skater and why he thought that mean that I have any skills I don't know but I assured him that there are no splits or back handsprings in my repertoire and he managed to look only mildly disappointed but did change our music from something funky and sexy by the Pussycat Dolls to Walk This Way by Aerosmith and Run DMC so I imagine I will be doing less dancing and more stomping around and gesturing like the World's Clumsiest And Unflamboyant Drag Queen.
Or Kate Gosselin. Whichever mental image works for you.