I broke my shoes...

Most Thursdays and the occasional Sunday afternoon Hubs and I go dancing. This subplot of our story began maybe four years ago, when he decided he wanted to learn to dance.

So off we went to a short course at our local tafe. It took him the first four weeks to count to eight with the music. But we did some basic Latin stuff and he liked it enough that we continued classes with a local studio, in between his PhD and all that attached stuff.

Four years on and now we're pretty good about going to a class every week and usually go out social dancing afterward. I should add that this has been a labor of love for my darling husband.

Half my working week is spent dancing in some form or another; he's a dr of computer science, not usually noted for spectacular feats of coordination, unless you can count downloading, coding, conversing online and planning a Magic deck simultaneously as physical activity. Right now, as we drive to dancing, he's singing along to Cake songs.
Atonally.

And I gave him the option tonight; we've both been grappling some pleasant chesty virus a while, but "No, I really want to go! I love dancing with you!".
Awwwww.

So, off we go, across the creaky dance floor, triple-stepping and Suzie-Q-ing our hearts out.

For the record, the broken shoes titling this post are being mended. I have multiple pairs good for dancing... Of course.