ME BELLY DANCING

When I was in Grade Seven, my mother decided I should take ballroom dancing lessons. And when I argued that since I was planning to enter the priesthood and couldn't see the need, she countered that I'd be attending my share of weddings and should be able to accept an invitation to dance without making a fool of myself.

And I could see her point.

So, I dutifully went along every two weeks to don my white gloves and learn the waltz and foxtrot and tango and even some silly two-step called the Lindy Hop (named after Charles Lindberg - which should give you a rough idea of how up-to-date that was).

But even after I'd left the seminary, I almost never had the urge to show my stuff on the dance floor. And, as the years went by, I became positively stubborn about my refusal to shake it about in public - for any reason.

Then, in my second year at CBC, I got called down to Toronto to appear on Morningside (the radio network's flagship show) to talk about my tabloid days with then-host and former Liberal Cabinet Minister, Judy LaMarsh.

LaMarsh had been a pretty hard-nosed politician in her day and proved just as tough as an interviewer. Before the broadcast, when I was brought into the studio to be introduced to her, the program's producer warned, "Judy's a bit old-fashioned, Jim. So, I hope you won't be offended if she makes some comment about the length of your hair."

I assured her I could take care of myself.

And as she predicted, no sooner had the introductions been completed than LaMarsh squinted hard at me and demanded to know if I was going to let my hair grow long enough that I could sit on it. And I shot back, "Judy, I intend to let it grow long enough that I can stand on it!"

The producer smiled and said, "Well, I guess you two will be alright then." And she disappeared back into the control room.

It appeared the only other guest was a lawyer come to talk about changes to the country's divorce laws. But not long after the show had begun, LaMarsh announced that we'd be joined later by a man who taught belly dancing in Toronto. And right away, I saw where this was headed.

Our host, who had a reputation as something of a militant feminist and who had insisted on having a staff of female production assistants, was notorious for humiliating on air any male who tried to cross her. So, I suspected that, at the conclusion of the show, the lawyer and I were going to be asked to get up and take lessons from the belly dance instructor. And God help us if we refused!

Brave as I might have been, I decided to meekly acquiesce and do the dance. And anyway, who was going to see me dance on radio?!

My fellow guest was not so wise and - just as I'd expected - she gave him a good raking over the coals (live and from coast to coast) before she finally shamed him into submission.

So, up we got and - move for move - dutifully followed the instructions of our teacher. But I made sure to ask him lots of questions in the process, since I reasoned that the more questions I asked, the less I'd have to wiggle.

Everything was going fine. And while I may not have been as limber as Elvis, I was managing pretty well, I thought - until I looked up at the window of the control room. And there stood all six of the production assistants laughing and pointing and enjoying themselves far too much.

And, in spite of the fact that they tried to make up for it by taking me to lunch, I made myself a promise there and then.

From that moment on, belly dancing was going to remain for me what it always should have been: purely a spectator sport.

(Scroll down to catch up on the days you've missed. Tomorrow: Day Ten - NO LORD A-LEAVING.)