Gulya is my dance instructor. She’s from Azerbaijan, she’s five feet tall, and I’m afraid of her. Gulya, too, is afraid. She fears I will stomp my wife’s toes. I’m wearing boots, because we are a month away from a wedding on a California ranch, where real cowboys will be dancing real cowboy dances. Faced with this prospect, I realized several weeks ago that my choices are:
1) Ask my beautiful wife to sit beside me in a gorgeously decorated barn and watch everyone else dance the night away;
2) Sit by myself in said barn and watch my wife dance the night away with cowboys;
3) Learn how to dance.
In other words, I have no choice. [Read more...]