So after a lifetime of indoctrination by Baz Luhrmann movies, I signed up to ballroom classes at the Y. After all, I have to prepare to be spun, and twirled, and swooped under a sparkly Coca-Cola sign at dawn, and rally in the final moments of the Open Amateur Latin Division at the Pan-Pacific Grad Prix. Right?

But the thing I’ve discovered, with tango at least, is that I’m a somewhat, umm, problematic partner. It’s the following, see. I don’t follow too well. OK, I don’t really follow at all, and in a dance where the woman’s only task is to be an extremely sensitive, responsive, malleable doll to be steered around the room by her (forceful, stern, ohso masculine) partner, that doesn’t exactly work out too well. In life, I can maintain the illusion of following just fine: people who know me probably think I’m fairly acquiescent and easy-going. “No, you choose!” “Whatever you want.” “I don’t mind at all.”

But I lie! Truth is, I’ll only do what you want if a) I’m completely ambivalent on the matter, or b) it matches up with my own secret plans. And being steered around a dancefloor like a frigidaire takes some adjustment.

Something that also takes adjustment? Deciphering Montreal accents so that when my partner tells me I am a frigidaire, I don’t slap him.

But I will not be defeated. Tonight is samba, and in samba, I can actually move—without patriarchal permission! Of course, moving equals dropping dead of exhaustion, since my lazy, slothful, full-time writer’s ass has merely waddled between the couch, my bed and various cake-laden café tables for oh, the past year, but I suppose that’s the whole point. Abby’s body, meet endorphins; endorphins, meet Abby–try not to keel over with the shock of it.