Fred Astaire glided across my TV late last night in Holiday Inn. When I was a kid, I always planned to have a boyfriend who was light on his feet like Fred. We’d go to dances and part the crowds with our dazzling display of elegant moves. Applause, applause!
The only good thing about my ability to do a graceful waltz, however, was that all my friends were equally as bad. Our idea of slow dancing at Teentown was this: girl puts her hands atop boy’s shoulders and boy puts his hands at sides of girl’s waist and then they both shuffle their feet in circles, trying all the while not to destroy the other’s toes. If they were more than “just friends,” the girl’s hands wrapped around the back of his neck and the boy’s hands slid behind her waist and then made clumsy attempts at butt cheek grabbing. The feet, however, stayed the same. No one ever stepped aside to watch any high school Freds and Gingers at Teentown. There were none.
Seeing Fred Astaire waltzing and tapping across my TV screen last night was such a rush. He looked so elegant. His partner was long-limbed, with a 20-inch waist, and she flowed into his arms. Oh, how I long for the day when a dapper, Fred-like kind of guy taps me on the shoulder and murmurs those sweet words I’ve been longing to hear for decades. “May I have this dance?” He sweeps me off my size 10 tennis shoes and we go fluttering away to the admiration of all those around us. No butt groping required to get me feeling light-footed or light-headed with Sir Astaire.
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