Waltzing Through a Marriage's First Test

By Jenny Rough
Special to The Washington Post
Monday, February 12, 2007

Standing outside the grand ballroom, I heard the first notes of Eric Clapton's rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." My brand-new husband was by my side and I was squeezing his hand. Hard. Our wedding coordinator swung open the doors with a huge smile.

An hour earlier I hadn't batted an eye while taking vows to be true until death did us part. But now, my palms were sweating, my lips trembling and my head felt as if it was about to explode.

This was the moment I had dreaded.

Ron loves to dance; he adores live music and all that jazz. I was born with two left feet. One of our first dates was at a supper club where even a couple of strong cosmos couldn't unglue my butt from the bar stool. But because Ron had allowed me to choose nearly every other detail of our wedding, I agreed he could hire a band for the big night.

He booked a 12-piece ensemble that included a trumpet player, a trombone player, and three female backup singers. He promised the size of the band wouldn't overpower the banquet room full of our 100 guests. He promised the band would be a hit.

As for me? I would be dealt with through dance lessons.

Learning to dance is like learning to cook. If you follow the instructions to a T -- 1 pound ground beef, 2 eggs, 1 cup bread crumbs -- you'll end up with a concoction that technically passes as meatloaf, but without the improvisational skills of a chef, and the result never quite qualifies as delicious. So it is with dance. Back, back, side, together. I was rigid and refused to listen to the nuances of the song, preferring to simply count the beat in my head.

But, hey, at least I was officially dancing.

As we walked into the ballroom, Ron looked extraordinarily handsome in his tuxedo. I was nervous and pale in my white lace gown. Ron led me through a pathway around tables of applauding guests. Maybe this won't be so bad, I thought. It's an easy crowd to please.

The song started on a slow beat, so I handled the beginning routine with elegance, swaying side to side. Then I moved backward. Two steps and I halted. Ron nudged me on, but in three-inch Fenarolis and a wedding gown, I faltered. Rocking me side to side once more, Ron brushed his lips against my ear.

"What's wrong," he whispered.

"I keep stepping on the lining of my dress," I whispered back.

He looked down. I looked down. In fact, we both looked down at exactly the same moment. It was as if we were reenacting a Three Stooges scene when our foreheads smacked.

My head felt fine, but my insides hurt. This was my husband's Fred Astaire moment and I was ruining it by being his flunky dance partner.

But Fred Astaire was not giving in. He kept me going through my stumbles, toward the highlight of the number, which was quickly approaching. We'd practiced our "big move" a million times in class -- it involved spinning out, then twirling in (only repeat that three times and in every imaginable direction). I was supposed to wind up with my back pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around me from behind.

"Ready?" he asked.

Sweat prickled down my sides. I made big eyes and shook my head no.

"I'll lead you," he said calmly. I don't know if it was the tone of his voice, or the way he pulled me close, or if it was pure elation from the fact that we had just married, but I realized I had let my heart lead me this far, why not a little farther? I heard myself say, "All right."

I let go.

Here's what I remember: candlelit colors, a stomach flip, my husband's firm but gentle hands, the accompanying wild chatter of wedding guests and lyrics about happy little bluebirds. Whether I was spinning in the right direction or the wrong direction, I had no clue, but suddenly I was back in position, in my husband's embrace.

Our guests hooted and clapped. Ron kissed me as I dropped my shoulders in relief.

The band was a hit. Even the preacher was on the floor. But when one of the backup singers pulled me onstage to perform a song, I froze. "Pink!" I heard my bridesmaids scream. "This band is so hip, they're playing Pink."

Once I figured out they weren't talking about the color of the flowers, I went with the flow. Since I didn't know the words, I mouthed "watermelon cantaloupe" over and over, hoping our guests had consumed too much champagne to notice. Then, while we were eating cake, the band began to play a song I do love: Van Morrison's "Moondance." As the band leader bellowed, "Well, it's a marvelous night," I tapped my feet and bobbed my head.

Ron smiled. "Ready, partner?" he asked.

Back on the dance floor, we debated between a swing and a rumba. I wasn't sure of the steps to either, but I had a feeling we'd figure them out along the way.