"Have you practiced this week?" the dancing instructor asks each week. No, we haven't. It's hard to practice when we don't see each other much.
The local rec league offered ballroom dance classes, which some friends wanted to take. But alas, too few couples enrolled; the class was in danger of being cancelled. So they went on a recruiting mission. That's how Gary and I ended up in dance classes for January and February. Because of his mom's death and his dad's surgery, however, Gary missed two of the first four classes, and we're still playing catch-up.
So this week, we have [gasp] actually SEEN each other. Y'know, been in the same place at the same time! And we've looked at our cheat-sheet, tried to practice, and hunted up you-tube instructional videos to refresh what I couldn't decipher from our class notes.
Poor kitty. The kitchen floor space is a whoppin' 5x10' area. Rosie is wandering around the kitchen, begging snacks, looking to be petted, and she ends up getting bumped, trying to escape, and heading right back into the path of where we're ostensibly dancing. Who would've thunk it would be hard to foxtrot and tango in 50 sq-ft of space? With a cat tango-ing betwixt your feet?