Life's not easy for the rhythm-impaired.

I'm supposed to go line-dancing this week.

With a little work, I should be able to chicken out of it with a perfectly good rationalization.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't appreciate the aesthetics of the Electric Slide or Cowboy Charleston. I just lack the technical skills.

I can't simultaneously count to eight AND tell my right from left. It's got to be one or the other.

And don't tell me to count to four twice; I've tried that and it doesn't work.

That explains why I hate election years. Too many people tap-dancing around the issues.

When I was a baby, I learned to walk before I learned to crawl, and it's ruined any chance I ever had of getting my arms and legs all going in the right direction at once.

I think of it as motor-skills dyslexia.

It's not my fault, I'm a victim.

The irony here is that when I had to worry about GPAs, I took classes like folk and ballroom dancing to make sure I didn't get Cs (or worse) in P.E.

Even for klutzes like me, the troika is a whole lot easier than field hockey.

And you don't have to worry about being decapitated by the other team. Anyone who thinks women are incapable of physical aggression has never played field hockey. The Marines could learn a thing or two.

Besides, you were a lot more likely to have written tests in classes like folk dance, which meant I was a lot more likely to get at least a B.

My friend Loraine, who was force-fed Fred and Ginger movies from a tender age, has a theory that when you meet your true love, you can automatically dance together, just like in those movies.

Five minutes after they met, Fred and Ginger were doing the Continental, and Ginger was wearing a long skirt.

Pretty impressive.

Actually, Loraine's theory may go a long way toward explaining my dating history.

I'm a product of my generation. In the 60s and early 70s, teen-agers had to learn a bewildering variety of dances (the Twist, the Mashed Potato, the Boogalo, and eventually, the Hustle) or spend their free time hiding in the library.

By the time my hormones kicked in, dancing was all about swaying, with or without a partner. If you were ambitious, you might do the Pony, but only for one song.

Or slam-dancing, but that could be dangerous. And painful.

Dances with actual steps were (and for me, still are) a foreign concept.

Except waltzing. Even I can waltz. But if we spin too often, I get dizzy.

So of course, now that I'm a rational, reasonably mature and competent adult, dances with steps (like line dancing, which, by definition, requires some semblance of order) are coming back in style.

I'm no longer subject to the adolescent terror of embarrassment, so I don't have to spend my free time hiding in the library.

I'm a mature adult. And I have a job, so I can hide in the bookstore.

Just blame it on the Bossa Nova.

~Peggy O'Farrell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.