Fancy Dancin'

My father and stepmother recently completed a ten-week ballroom dancing course at the local university. That my stepmother was interested in ballroom dancing came as no surprise to me, but I was astounded that she actually talked my father into taking the course with her. I’m sure such a feat involved some form of trickery, such as telling him that she had enrolled them in a course on modern blacksmithing techniques or appreciation of German yodeling.

Now that they have successfully completed the course, they both are very excited about furthering their ballroom dancing careers. In fact, had I not been late in arriving at their farm on Friday night, we would have ventured into Columbus to the weekly gathering of their ballroom dancing cohorts. While the course apparently had been conducted in a real live ballroom dance studio at the Mississippi University for Women and Smart Men, Too (no lie, that’s what the university’s administration called the school after the United States Supreme Court issued a coeducational mandate for public post-secondary schools in the early 90’s), the weekly gathering takes place in a storefront dance studio located directly across the street from the dry cleaning shop that Dad operates. While I’m tempted to ask Dad and Beverly how their storefront dancing is coming along, somehow I think they would take offense to such a watering down of the “ballroom dancing” classification.

Every week, Lydia, the proprietor of the storefront dancing studio, comes up with a theme for the Friday evening dance. The next week’s theme is “Sock Hop, and the following week will be “Enchanted Evening.”

Of course, my parents, being the weekend warriors that they are, feel the need to go all out for such social events. Any time punch and cookies are served at an event, there is always an occasion to impress. As such, my father and stepmother discussed the wardrobes they would wear to these up and coming occasions. Or, more accurately, my stepmother discussed what she would wear and how she would dress my father, while Dad just looked over at her and grimaced.

To the sock hop, Beverly has ordered a poodle skirt and saddle oxfords to wear. This surprised me, given that as we had previously been discussing new hairstyles for her, I mentioned that I liked her current hairstyle of shoulder-length locks, as it made her look younger. She had been quick to inform me that she would not be styling her hair in a manner that made her look like an old woman trying too hard to look young. When she then mentioned the garb she would be donning for the sock hop soiree, I said, “Beverly, I think that would be fabulous, because nothing screams that you’re acting your age like a grandmother who dresses up in poodle skirts and saddle oxfords!” She told me that the point was well taken but that she was wearing the damned poodle skirt anyway.

She then turned to the topic of dressing my father for the event. She said she wanted him to wear denim jeans rolled up at the ankles and a white t-shirt with a pack of cigarettes folded up in the sleeve. My father, a non-smoker, protested and said that he did not want to wear anything that doesn’t represent who he is. I said, “Dad, I absolutely think that you should wear something that represents yourself, but somehow, I just don’t think wearing a chicken leg rolled up in your sleeve will fit the mood.”

The conversation then turned to the attire they had picked out for the upcoming enchanted evening at the storefront dancing studio. Beverly had found a form-fitting, strapless, black evening gown at an antique store. When she tried it on and then proceeded to dance in the living room with my father, she became embarrassed as her cleavage kept falling out of the dresss. I simply responded by saying, “Beverly, three words: Double stick tape!”

While Beverly’s dress was absolutely stunning, she was having a difficult time piecing together my father’s wardrobe for the occasion. Of course, as the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers of Ethelsville, it is imperative that their waltzing costumes match perfectly. Since Beverly had decided that she would wear a white scarf with her black dress, she concluded that my father needed to wear a black silk shirt with a white tie to complement her. Upon hearing of this, I felt it was my duty as the gay son to stick up for my father and protest such a horrid shirt-tie combination. When I pointed out the obvious – that the traditional color combo of white shirt and black tie would suffice – Beverly’s response was, “Oh, well, that’s wonderful . . . I never even thought of that!” If only the Queer Eye guys would come out with a few episodes aimed at the storefront dancing contingency, I think they will have covered all the bases in their quest of saving the world from fashion abuse. Why the Fab 5 keep their heroic efforts contained in the burroughs of New York when the good citizens of Ethelsville are desperate for their help is beyond me.

I’ve yet to see my dad and stepmom perform the fox trot, waltz, or rumba, but I cannot imagine it will be any less dangerous than the karate lessons in which Beverly now threatens to enroll them.