"When you get married, it's time to learn how to dance correctly."
A resident at the long term care facility I managed told me this just before my wedding. Her generation married young but already knew how to dance. In fact, their children knew how to dance, too, because they were enrolled in etiquette classes. Not so for my generation, and all my residents knew it. They had seen me stumbling around, trying to lead, which was bad, they told me.
For a young lady to truly dance correctly, these proper women patiently instructed, she must both give and receive. Give; as in surrender the irrepressible urge to always know the right way to go, and when, and how. Receive; as in allow the dashing young man (they're always dashing, aren't they?) to completely sweep you into his arms and carry you away on the music, even if the music is unfamiliar, harsh, or not particularly to your liking. As in, trust him to make it work, or, at least try to make it work as one entity, rather than two individuals.
"Partner: Either of two persons who dance together." (Webster's Collegiate Dictionary)
It's our eighth anniversary today.
It's an unfamiliar tune to which Yukon and I are dancing lately, but I trust him to help us with the steps. And he trusts me to let him when I just can't seem to figure out the sequence and my ankles turn on those crazy spiky shoes. The music is indeed harsh, and uncomfortable, but we are moving across the dance floor, one turn at a time.
He's a good partner.
The best, actually.