Very OT)
It sounds as if you are speaking of Cotillion! As a good Southern belle in Virginia in the early 60s, I was sent to Cotillion at 12. It was in the basement of the old Mayflower Hotel in the ballroom next to the garage, and when I smell garages even today, I have a quick flashback to those nights.
We were dressed in our Sunday best with tulle petticoats and white gloves. We did a Grand March to start the evening, and had to curtsey to the instructor (the boys, fidgety in their ties and jackets, had to take her hand and bow) and say, "Good EEEEVning, Miss Davidson."
We learned to waltz and polka and I think we even learned to chacha. The boys hated every minute, the girls were in an agony over being asked to dance by the right boy.
When my boys received invitations to Cotillion, they both flatly refused to go, and their father backed them on it. They can't dance at all, and I think that is sad. Because one is in theatre, he has been forced to learn to waltz, but he approaches dancing the same way he does learning to stagefight. Survival. |
