Last night I was fully prepared to stay home in grubby clothes and veg out on the couch, however, my roommate Chris would have none of it and we attended the ward cotillion instead. These are a regular event in the Boston Singles Scene, organized by a "Random Activities Coordinator." At the cotillion we were taught 19th-century American, English, Irish, and Scottish country dances (not to be confused with the modern version of country dancing--that stuff is horrible). It was unbelievably fun (and I don't have fun normally) and I'm very glad I attended.
That said, I don't know how anyone got married in the nineteenth century as a result of these dances. The purpose of the cotillion is to get young unmarried men and young unmarried women acquainted with as many other young unmarried women and young unmarried men as possible. This may be very well for the first few new partners, but let us hope that the love of one's life is not the seventh partner down, who only becomes acquainted with a hyperventilating, sweaty mess. I was very grateful for my Degree Ultraclear for Women last night, though ladies in the days of old were not blessed with such luxuries as anti-perspirant (or daily showers!).
One benefit of the rapid partner changing is that a lady has every opportunity to survey which men have the best dancing skills. As sexist as it sounds, any lady can dance as long as she has a strong male lead, and therefore, I'm also happy that at least a few of the men out there actually know how to lead in a dance. My partner for the Virginia Reel was quite competent, especially during one set of steps I can only describe as the "flying basket toss." It involves spinning into a propeller made out of girls. There's probably a video out there somewhere. Leading went less well during the "round dances" (aka waltz and polka), but as good Mormon folks we're not supposed to do those anyway...
At any rate, the cotillion was amazing, and I'm quite looking forward to the winter one, in which dressing up will play a major part. Now I must spend the day nursing my tonsils (as Jane Austen also wrote, "My sore throats are always worse than anyone's").
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