This One-Trick Pony

Dancing With The Stars is taking up entirely too much time on our TV screen.  My daughter, a longtime fan of Patrick Swayze a la Dirty Dancing fame, just has to see the show this season because Jennifer Grey is a contestant.  Remember her?  The coming-of-age idealist who transforms into Swayze's dance partner and love interest?  "Nobody puts Baby in a corner!"  Well, I wouldn't mind if somebody stuck ME in a corner . . . facing the wall.

Actually, though I bemoan it in large degree, I get why it's popular.  The amount of effort these stars exert to actually kick up their heels with some degree of proficiency -- especially the women IN HEELS! -- is laudable.  Dancing is fun to do; it's also fun to watch.  It's lightweight entertainment, free of murder and mayhem, requiring very little thought on the part of the viewer.  The panel of judges juggle flip and flirty commentary with constructive critique.  Not to mention a few straight-arrow zingers.  I've witnessed more than a few tears from contestants after hearing the breakdown at the end of their performance.  "You look like a big dancing banah-nah!" or "You have no passion.  No spark.  You won't make it past today with moves like that!" And there are so many bright and shiny objects: mainly the navels and straining bosoms of the female performers in their partial outfits!

Dare I say, one or two of the dip-n-swoop duos have tweaked very minor chords of fanship within me. And it's generally not the dancing.  When the personality mixes with the routine, it's rather fun to witness the end result.  When someone busts their hind-end all week to lock it in and they finally hit it on the dance floor, that's pretty cool.  Bully for them!  But it's still not enough to keep me wondering and waiting all week.  I admire the will to improve, even if it's merely a personal best and not capable of attracting a trophy.  Trophies collect dust.  Self-improvement is the victory that keeps on giving.

Now, my husband is not watching the unfolding tripping-the-light-fantastic drama.  He doesn't feel the need to bond with our eldest child over tangos and cha-chas and two-steps.  However, tonight he came into our bedroom as I was wrapping up a study session for a major test with our son -- bio-diversity in Honors Biology -- with a funny expression on his face.  One of his many funny expressions.  After the boy left, somewhat ruffled by my insistence that he take a more in-depth look at his notes before bed, this man of my heart approached the side of the bed where I lay in partial surrender to my end-of-the-day fatigue.  Taking in my reclining form, he leaned in for a hug and playfully murmured, "You're all done up like a trick pony."  I sat up, trying to fathom his meaning.  "What.  Do.  You.  Mean?" I queried, "I don't get it.  How am I done up?  Where's the pony in it all?"  I figured this is what we could expect from one another at such a level of weariness as this.  What, pray tell, could I call him?  Finally, he said, "I don't know what the heck it means.  The judge on Dancing With The Stars said it!"

So, see there?!  That purveyor of the rock n' roll paso doble stepped its way into our inner sanctum, television virus that it is, with my husband as its carrier!  Grrrr.