Caution: Dip Ahead

One-two-cha-cha-cha. Two-two-cha-cha-cha. Three-two-cha-cha-cha. Turn. Spin. Dip. By my second lesson for a local charity version of "Dancing With the Stars," I already had the cha-cha-chas down pat.

It had been easy to get into the rhythm. I got the turn. I got the spin. But the dip! The dip required a full-body free fall into the arms of my new dance instructor.

Michael Rye had been Australia's world dance cabaret champion, had performed on the stage of the Sydney Opera House, had taught thousands of ballroom dance classes. By a fluke, a friend of his had suggested he participate in an Arlington fundraising event based on the national television show.

So now there he was, in the Chevy Chase Ballroom a month before the performance in Arlington, telling me that, for the dip, all I have to do is let go, and lean, lean, lean at a 45-degree angle into his leg and shoulder, no hands. I give him a sidelong skeptical glance, despite the indisputable fact that he has, every time, caught me. "It's all about trust," he says in his charming, and assuring, Australian accent.

I laugh. Because it's also about fun. For the four weeks of rehearsals, I could walk into the ballroom free of daily decisions, free of the phone, free of e-mail and just be in the moment. All I had to do was concentrate on the music and the steps and strapping on my brand-new suede-soled Capezios.

It was like recess for grown-ups.

After the second dance lesson, I perused Michael's Web site, embellished with saucy quotations on dance. One jumped out at me, the title of a Les Blank documentary: "God Respects Us When We Work, but Loves Us When We Dance."

I was one of eight community leaders and activists asked to dance in the one-night fundraiser to benefit a nonprofit housing organization, the Bonder and Amanda Johnson Community Development Corp. The event had been a great success in its previous (inaugural) year and I was thrilled to be asked. My great-uncle Walter had danced in the Harvest Moon Ball at Madison Square Garden and always said that dancing was the secret to a happy life. My mom and dad had us dancing in the living room for many family parties, either to Lawrence Welk or Pérez Prado, and I did a mean polka at the Polish family weddings. I loved to dance. But I'd had no formal training at all.

A couple of months before the event, organizers had named the dancers and soon started matching us with instructors. But my first candidate, at 6-2, was a foot taller than me. The second one, aside from being on an extended trip to Maui, was a swing dancer who had e-mailed a sample video of gymnastic feats, which were beyond my abilities, or inclination.

In the weeks of waiting to find the right instructor, I concentrated on finding the right music. My operations director at the Rosslyn Business Improvement District, who traverses nowhere without his Motown-loaded iPod, lent me a stack of CDs, which I blasted loudly from my computer so the whole office could weigh in. The unanimous staff choice was Aretha's "Freeway of Love (in a Pink Cadillac)."

But I was about to give up on finding a partner when the swing instructor contacted his dancer friend Michael Rye, who had donated time to dance benefits for children's hospitals in Sydney and Hurricane Katrina victims in New Orleans. He was a good guy. Maybe he'd teach the cha-cha for the cause of affordable housing.

He would, and we made plans to meet in Chevy Chase the next evening.

When I entered the ballroom, several couples were practicing the waltz, swirling the length of the dance floor. I found Michael easily, surrounded by an attentive circle of students. We moved to a practice room, and in a friendly way, he looked me up and down, assessing his new pupil -- a 50-something career woman, camouflaged in Chico's rayon pants and top. How refreshing, I thought, not to pretend body type isn't a consideration. And he was the perfect height.

By the third lesson, he had planned most of the steps, with such names as New Yorkers and Turkish towel. He danced my part and videotaped it so I could practice at home, then taped the two of us dancing the routine together and uploaded the videos to YouTube. With each rehearsal, he taught me the embellishments -- how to run my hands through my hair, point with punch, strut with sass.

From the start, we planned to have a cheeky prop for our entrance: a cardboard pink Cadillac. But as the event approached, the Caddy was still two brown cardboard boxes in the back of Michael's car. I went shopping at Auto Zone and found a black velvet steering-wheel cover, appliqued with squiggly pink hearts. Perfect. The suggestion of driving a tacky pink Cadillac would do just fine.

By the dress rehearsal, when my instructor was comfortable enough to yell at his student, I knew we'd become pals. Rather than holding the last step in our finale, as instructed, I had simply wandered off to chat with a friend who had come to watch. "You DO NOT MOVE until I tell you to!" Michael roared. "I take your hand, and when I squeeze your thumb, we take our bows. And then we cha-cha off the floor." He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation.

After hours and hours of rehearsal, a back injury sidelined my performance. I was dismayed, but Michael figured out a way for me to walk onto the dance floor holding the velvet steering wheel and join him for a few simple steps. It ended up being a great night.

I had learned not only the cha-cha-cha, but also Great-Uncle Walter's secret to a happy life. I think it has something to do with time for recess.