So You Think You Can Dance?(Editorial)

Byline: Linda Wells, Editor in Chief

I won't dance; don't ask me. I mean it. The first verb in those lyrics should, in my case, be "can't." And I'm serious about not asking me.

I am, regretfully, a truly terrible dancer. When people ask me what I would change about myself, dancing comes to mind. Maybe not first, because that list starts with my metabolism, my appalling French accent, and my snail-like reading speed. (Those books that people say you can polish off in a sitting? Two weeks, minimum.) After I've tackled that list, I'd like to dance.

I was at a benefit the other night where the Black Eyed Peas performed. The room was filled with buttoned-up executives, but one by one, they leapt to their feet and started movingand not all of them well or gracefully. But they didn't seem to care. Even Leonard and Evelyn Lauder were shaking and shimmying and loving it. I eventually unglued myself from my seat and got up and clapped. I'm an adequate clapper.

Sometimes, though, I must dance, even if I'd really rather not. The CEO of a major cosmetics company is a Frenchman who cannot resist the dance floor. To call his style wildly enthusiastic would be an understatement. At the first event I attended as his guest, I was ignorant of his Astaire-like aspirations. As soon as the band started, he grabbed my hand and dragged me onto the vast and empty ...