I've recently come to realize that rhythm isn't necessarily part of a person's birthright. Not even for those of us who hail from Africa.

Although I've had my suspicions about being rhythmically challenged for a long time (ever since high school when I was the only one to be barred from attending the open school dances, to be exact. Okay, so that was probably a BIG hint, right there, but never mind! ), I stubbornly clung to the belief that humans, like dogs, can be taught to do virtually anything.

So on the day that GQ - a stage name meaning Good Quality and NOT the fashion glossy unread by straight men the world over unless they really are metrosexual and/or a little desperate - danced his swaggering way from the Arthur Murray dance studio into my motionless life, it didn't take him too long to convince me that he could very well transform me into the next Ginger Rogers.

"I can teach anyone!" he smoothly covered my weak protests.

"Besides, doll! You already have the red hair!" he gushed.

I should have known better then, but somehow, after all these years of being in the United States, an unhealthy amount of the American self-belief that you can do ANYTHING if you're willing to try and/or pay for a really good teacher, had already rubbed off on me too.

After spending a sleepless night fantasizing about how I was going to strut my stuff in the starring role of a passionate tango opposite a Latino hunk, I showed up at the studio for my complimentary first lesson.

As I watched the twirling couples on the dance floor, I shook the recurring images of the hilarious Australian film "Ballroom" from my head and assured myself that the exercise would be good for me.

Upon seeing me, GQ performed a lavish pirouette.

"I have more left feet than the number of tentacles on an octopus!" I forewarned as he grabbed me by the hand.

The music must have been too loud, because he merely took one disapproving glance at my trusty Nikes and ordered his assistant to go and get me a pair of ... he literally recoiled when I whispered "Size 11. Wide"... stilettos.

Yeah, so I have gigantic feet. Bite me. Besides, you know what they say: Large feet means large... brains?

Once I finally squished my feet into a pair of 9 and a halfs (it's the best the assistant could do, she assured me as she tried to refrain from openly gawking at my freakishly large, flat feet), I shuffled over to the dance floor.

"But I can hardly WALK in them!" I lamented at five inches above floor level while desperately flailing my arms about in a shaky attempt to keep my balance.

"It doesn't matter, honey, 'cause you ain't gonna walk!" GQ said with relish as he flashed me his mile-wide grin.

It is possibly due to the trauma that followed, but I can hardly remember what happened next. One moment my body parts were being contorted into surreal shapes and I was displaying about the same amount of grace as an ox on speed.

The next minute I was truly airborne.

I just remember GQ's voice throughout the blur of sight, sound and pain going: "FEEL the music, Baby! Just FEEL it! And ONE, and TWO, and THREEEEE and LIFT and AraBESque..!"

I don't think I will ever forget the one rule of Physics that more or less states that a body in motion is bound to keep on moving. (Only until it collides with a dancehall mirror, of course. Then it can stop very abruptly indeed.)

Following its crash landing, said body remained miraculously unscathed.

But the emotional scars... Oh, those still run infinitely deep.

Whenever I hear an upbeat song on the radio and I am tempted to start tapping my foot, I can still hear GQ's voice as he told the assistant: "Man, that white girl wasn't kidding. She REALLY can't dance. I've never seen anything like it."

"And not to mention those FEET..."