My grandmother taught me to waltz by forcing me to dance with my brother. She vowed it would pay off when I was old enough to date.
She was absolutely right. In the early seventies, when I was finally dating, I used it as an excuse to get out of dancing.
While the disco ball turned and dizzying strobes of psychedelic light pulsed to the beat of The Bee Gees or Donna Summer, I could turn away prospective partners with the comment, “Sorry, I’m waiting for a waltz.”