Ballroom dancing is hazardous to your health. At least, that’s what I’ve learned from reading through the “save-our-heinie-from-lawsuits” disclaimer that was given to everyone five minutes into the first day of class. Don’t believe me? Check this out:

“We all want a safe environment, and very few injuries actually do occur. Nevertheless, it must be recognized that accidents can occur in active participation and may range from ‘small injuries’ such as bruises, sprains, and strains to ‘serious injuries’ such as broken bones, eye injury, quadriplegia or even death.”

You read that right — by going to ballroom dance class twice a week, I am risking not one, but both of my eyeballs, as well as embracing the possibility of being confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life. And then of course there’s the whole dying thing, which I’m not too fond of.

Now, the instructor says that she has never had a student injure his or her self while participating in the class, but who’s to say it will never happen? All it takes is one ill-timed step and someone’s tibia could be jammed into their throat, ending his or her ballroom dancing days … forever.

The whole idea that a fatal injury could prevent someone from ballroom dancing for the rest of their life is quite preposterous, absurd, and frankly, a bit scary. I couldn’t find any data on the frequency of freak tibia-throatular accidents due to ballroom dancing, but it has got to be some ridiculously high number, like over three and a half or something.

Besides the extreme risk factor that ballroom dance brings to the table, there is also this eternal question that has puzzled many a philosopher: Why are people in this class? Through careful study and research I have come up with the following completely true stereotypes that describe the members of the Spring 2005 Ballroom Dance Crew:

Future Gym Teachers: Only these students have a good reason for being here. They’re required to take this class (and other exciting classes such as Square Dancing and Barn Raising) for their physical education major. Easily recognizable by their smug grins and overall disinterest in the class. If only my old grade school gym teacher had been educated this well…

The Ladies’ Men: These are the guys that have never had any luck with women, unless you count bad luck. Somehow they are the under the impression that by taking ballroom dance, they will be able to sweep women off their feet with impressive modern-era dances like the waltz and the fox-trot. I recommend better hygiene and a new haircut.

Foreign Exchange Students: These fascinating students have taken ballroom dance to become even more immersed in American culture. Apparently they wish to learn more about our strange, silly ways and bring some of our American-born ideas like the polka and cha-cha back to their home countries such as Germany and Spain. That, or they’re trying to learn new dance moves for the clubs; this can only end in disaster.

The Boyfriend: Easily recognizable by the look of desperation on their faces; often times it seems as if they are only seconds away from running out of the room and screaming gibberish to anyone that walks by. They have been living in a personal hell ever since that fateful day when their significant other uttered those ever-so-painful words: “We should take ballroom dance together next semester.”

Indeed, this last group earns my utmost sympathy, and not only because I am a member of it. No, it is much worse. Imagine the following completely hypothetical conversation:

FRIEND: “So where are you headed?”

GUY: “Um, ballroom dance class.”

* Silence. No crickets are heard because the Bowling Green weather system has made them extinct, along with the Midwestern rhinoceros. *

FRIEND: “Yeah, how’d you get into that anyway? Did your girl make you?”

GUY: “I, uh, actually agreed to do it before we even started dating.”

This pitiful situation is the very definition of whipped. If you looked up “whipped” in the dictionary, there probably wouldn’t be a picture, unless it was of those cool kids’ dictionaries, in which case there would probably be a picture of whipped cream, but if whipped cream didn’t exist, my picture would almost certainly be there, and I would be crying tears of sadness.

So for now, rejoice in the fact that you are not taking ballroom dance and are not facing the horrible odds of injury that I am. But rest assured, your day will come. It better — I need to sell this throat protector to someone.

Jim really does like to dance, but couldn’t pass up this column opportunity. Send him some groove tips at [email protected].