I’ll take Potpourri for $800, Alex.

I never took the typical dance lessons that girls of my generation took – there was an ill-fated 10 week clogging class at my local Rec Center when I was in Second Grade – the only things I remember are that the soda machine at the aforementioned center had Red Cream Soda flavored Fanta, and that would be the highlight of the (end of) class – and that the class took place on Wednesdays. Shuf. Fle. Step!

I took one other dance class – in college, for my final PE requirement. Modern Dance. Now, I think I’ve established that while I have a great many attributes, grace isn’t one of them. So here I am chilling in the dance studio in my brand new mandatory leotard and tights (because, God forbid we wear gym clothes to dance), and in walks in a rail thin woman who introduces herself as our instructor, Bala Sarasvati. Um. Yeah – is it too late to get in to Intermediate Badminton? I spent the rest of the quarter flailing around the studio to Enya, and basically looking like an idiot. I really thought I’d get the hang of Modern Dance easily, but apparently, it, like all other dance is an art form.

The frustrating thing is, I love to dance. I would have loved to have been a member of my high school’s SHOW CHOIR - you can’t say it without shouting it, but in order to be in SHOW CHOIR, you had to not only be able to sing (check), you had to also be able to dance (curses, foiled again). If you were a guy and could eke out a box step, you were in, but the ladies had to work it, and I couldn’t. Jazz hands! My freshman year of high school, I told the drama teacher I could roller skate in order to get a part as a chorus girl in the Spring musical - Lucky Dollar Private Eye – a few rehearsals in, they made it my schtick that I couldn’t skate, which later expanded (unintentionally) to couldn’t dance. After that, I stuck to plays.

All of this background is a lead-in to last night, when I went partying on the General Jackson Riverboat with some clients/colleagues from work.

They had a show, and it was a song and dance deal – lots of sequins, kicks, huge grins and adrenaline to spare. Some of it was cheesy and some of it was cringe inducing (the Elvis impersonator singing Dixie/Battle Hymn of the Republic, anyone?), but it made me jealous as hell of the ones who could dance. I’ve flirted with the idea of taking a class since last fall, after I saw The Drowsy Chaperone on Broadway – but how often does a 33 year old woman need to pull out her tap shoes and bust a move (or, in my case, bust her ass)?

When I got home from my dance-envy evening, I saw that bothMatt and I had received our invitations from the Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communications to join them for a pre-Homecoming picnic. The invitation promises a visit from UGA VII (VI sadly went to doggie heaven over the summer).

I didn’t much do the football scene in college, but I went to the J-School picnic my first year out of school, to see if I could scrounge up a better job – I dressed up, took some business cards that I had made for the occasion, because my job didn’t provide me with them, and I cruised around the building's basement on the tour feeling desperate and pitiful. I didn’t go to the game, of course, because – well, I couldn’t afford tickets.

I haven’t been back for Homecoming since then.

It might be fun, some day, for me and Matt to hit the old campus again. Since we met there, in Darrell Roe’s class, and we had our first kiss there under an oak tree on North Campus.

But we didn’t fall in love until we left.

Still, I’d think that as MRS degrees go, UGA might claim me a victory.

I’d also love to take a look at my sorority house – apparently, the house is thriving and the girls there are adorable these days. I like think I was pretty cute, but I’ll bet that these kids look at our old pictures and laugh just like we did with the pix from our sisters circa 1980.

When my Mom cleaned out the garage last week, she mentioned she’d tossed a good bit of sorority stuff – and I felt a momentary twinge, followed by nothing. I kept all my papers and projects – the academic stuff, and as for the social part of college – I’ve kept the finest memories, which is all that matters. I think. I hope.

Happy Friday, one and all.