One of the big hits on ABC this season is Dancing With The Stars. I've never seen it. Not just because of my odd work-hours, which make my Prime-Time viewing fall between noon and 2:00 p.m. Not just because the idea of Jerry Springer in a sequin-covered leotard makes me break out in hives. Not just because, as a child, I was once scared by a Tommy Tune appearance on Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. No, the main reason I've never seen the show is because it would dredge up memories of my own pathetic attempts to trip the light fantastic. Or, in my case, "Look, he TRIPped over THE LIGHT! FANTASTIC! Now we have to replace that, too!"

Genetically, I should be able to maneuver across the dance floor without looking like a driver-less Zamboni. My mother is a great dancer. As a child, she was the Shirley Temple of northern Wisconsin. Her dad would play the fiddle or guitar and she would dance. As an adult, she loves weddings...not for the ceremony so much....but for the dance that comes later. In fact, when she cleans the house or works in the kitchen, if there is music within a 20 mile radius, she will hear it and jitterbug, polka and two-step her way through the chores at hand...or, more accurately, at foot. My oldest, much, much oldest, brother inherited the lion's share of her terspichorean talents. I really believe, had he been given the opportunity, he could've been one of those dancers you used to see on the Carol Burnett show or something. Part of me believes that he purposely had all daughters just so he could always have one of the featured dances at their weddings. To this day, even at his very, very advanced age, he will be the last one to leave the dance floor. Did I mentioned his advanced age?

As for me, I can't cut a rug. I can't even cut a welcome mat. I almost cut a handkerchief, once. Part of it goes back to some long-gone wedding dance. I was around 12 and remember being out on the dance floor of some smoky supper club. I could fake my way through a polka and almost do a simple box step, actually turned out to be more of a trapezoid. But, when the band started to play a modern type of song, I thought it was time to try something new. So, I released my partner...who shall remain nameless and shameless...and said "Let's try this." After which I started to throw my hands up in the air and swivel my hips. I was attempting to recreate things I'd seen on American Bandstand. Now, we didn't watch that show much in my house. We were more likely to have the Lawrence Welk show on...which also showed folks dancing from time to time or at least leaning on each other to the beat. Well, my attempt at being a cross between Twyla Tharp and Chubby Checker fell flat. My partner burst into gales of laughter and I slunk to the side. For a very long time, I didn't venture out onto a dance floor. In fact, my anti-dance resolve was so strong, I never attended a dance in high school. That decision was completely supported by all the girls in my class...and every other class.

Many years later, when my wife and I were expecting our first little bundle of joy...which, by the time they hit their teen years is more like a bundle of laundry...we decided to take some dancing lessons. I don't know what we were thinking. My wife was very pregnant and I was, by evening, always very pooped. Despite those facts, as well as the lingering pain of my inner-Fred Astaire and the questionable rhythmic aptitude of my lovely spouse, we signed up. Each Tuesday night we would head over to a middle-school gymnasium to learn some new step. We totally botched even the simplest instructions. Others were quickly gliding around the hardwood while we were stepping all over each other. Worse than that, we found it very funny. Our laughter indicated to our rather grim instructor that we simply were not taking this as seriously as we should. We got the evil eye continually. Still, we persevered through the first three weeks of the six week course. Then, on the fourth Tuesday, it all fell apart.

We made a number of mistakes before we even got to the gym. First, I ate one too many onion-seasoned hamburgers and too large a pile of spicy fries. Secondly, our yet-to-arrive son was apparently taking some sort of pre-natal martial arts class that day. And, finally, our attempts to actually practice at home were quickly replaced by watching Star Trek reruns and eating chocolate-caramel ice cream. When we arrived at the class, me feeling like a bloated flounder and my wife auditioning for a part in the sequel to Alien, we heard the words we had been dreading: "Tonight, we take a big step," announced our instructor. "Tonight, you will dance with others! That, my children, is the true test of a dancer. Taking your talents and melding them in a creative explosion of footwork and heart. When we have accomplished this, we can rule with impunity!" Okay, the last part may be a bit off the mark, but the first part...dancing with someone other than your original partner...that was true and totally frightening. My wife and I exchanged knowing glances filled with fear. In the first dance of the evening, without saying a word to one another, we stutter-stepped our way toward the door and waltzed or rumba-ed or samba-ed or line-danced right to our car. (Not knowing the difference between those various dance moves may be a clue to our cluelessness.) When we got home, we were pretty sure the rest of the class wouldn't even miss us and that the teacher figured her withering glances had finally pushed us into the basement.

Now, on FirstNews this morning, we had a story about the physical benefits of dancing...the waltz in particular. Researchers say doing the waltz is just as effective as biking or running on a treadmill in rehabbing people with heart problems. Well, fortunately, it's not my heart that has the problem. It's my feet. I don't need a researcher to tell me that dancing won't do my feet...or my wife's...any good.