High School Rival and Chubby Solicitor have been taking dance lessons in preparation for their wedding. On Monday night, they invited their close friends to waltz with them so that we do not look like an embarrassing bunch of Britney Spears impersonators in January.

A look of pure hatred and horror came over my face when I foxtrotted my way into the suburban dance studio. While I remembered to be in comfortable clothes and shoes, no one told me that the other essential accessory was a partner.

The three ladies and three gentlemen quickly latched onto each other. The lonely girl who had earlier fancied herself becoming the hottest dance sensation since Hugh Jackman was paired off with the dance instructor’s camp English husband.

“I will lend you my husband, Emery,” said the dance instructor with an impossibly small bum.

“Hullo there, muffins,” greeted Emery, in a pink silk shirt and tight black pants.

I fought the urge to take the dance instructor aside and relay to her Liza Minnelli’s romantic history.

Emery sang to Michael Bublè as we glided across the floor. Under his impeccable guidance, I was becoming quite competent. But I couldn’t stop staring at my feet.

“You know, I can’t keep my eyes off my feet,” I said.

Emery suddenly stopped. He led me to the side of the room and proceeded to examine my feet.

“Muffins, they are very interesting looking feet,” he declared. “Now, keep your eyes locked on my bluish grey eyes and you won’t worry a thing about making a mistake.”

I swapped partners with the Bridesmaid halfway through Fly Me to the Moon. Chubby Solicitor’s friend from the law firm, Bubble-O-Bill, was a massive ball of nervousness. He also had a habit of forming saliva bubbles around his mouth when he spoke.

Bubble-O-Bill did not have Emery’s grace and elegance. My interesting feet lost their rhythm. When came the time to do the fancy twirling bit, I spun out of control and slid ten feet across the dance floor on my knees.

Sensing my distress, Emery came back to be my partner again. But I no longer possessed my earlier brilliance.

“Muffins, what’s wrong with you? You were Ginger Rogers before. Now you’re stomping around like it’s a hoe-down,” said Emery with alarm.

“It’s Bubble-O-Bill,” I whispered. “He’s made me bad.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Muffins. It happens to the best of us,” Emery assured me. “I danced with my uncle Frank one wedding. Came out of that with bloodied toes and deepest sympathy for my poor aunt Vera.”