You know, you’re never too old to be surprised by your one and only.

You know, you’re never too old to be surprised by your one and only.


Sir, love of my life, bridge partner and holder of the remote control, is very set in his ways in no uncertain terms.


The toothpaste, the shaving cream and the razor have to be of a certain brand and size. Otherwise, well, they just don’t work, now do they?


The socks have to be to the knee – not a hair over the knee cap, and heaven preserve us if it’s a hair under. It has to be just so, or – well, gosh dern it – the socks just don’t work. He may as well wear them on his head – create little ear flaps so as to look like a bloodhound.


The potato chips – potato chips, I shriek – have to be made by a certain company. Otherwise they’re just shredded cardboard and not worth his while.


Chocolate? Oh my, have I hit on a biggie here. It has to be plain. Don’t be messing around with his chocolate, I implore you. Nuts are not meant to go with chocolate. Neither is coconut, raspberry, cherry, coffee or, sakes alive, raisins. Mind you, he’s a bit of a fair-weather chocolate naysayer when it comes to a Snickers – he will tolerate the odd nut obviously if it’s nestled in a bed of caramel at a pinch. I have managed, for the sake of vague health, to get him to accept dark chocolate, but that is only acceptable if I starve him of the milk variety.


Television programs pose another example of his staunch discipline. There are various shows we have to tape, and if AT&T or Mother Nature interferes with the programming of same, there is just no humoring him.


So it was with great surprise – nay, verily delight – that he accepted my very carefully phrased entreaty to have a try at watching “Dancing with the Stars.”


I think Tom Bergeron, the host, is a hoot, and I do love to watch professionals dance. They are gobsmacking in their litheness and technique, and it just gives me a great amount of pleasure, quite frankly, to admire the odd taut bun or two.


Sir has dived in head first into the show. He critiques it like a pro and, like me, does go into paroxysms of admiration for the odd taut boob or two. “Real or fake” is quite often asked.


I had my chance to dance as a little girl when I decided at the tender age of 6 or so that I just had to learn ballet. The fact that I somewhat resembled the hippo in Fantasia meant not a jot to me as I lusted after tutus and point shoes.


This fad, as so many of mine did, faded after the prerequisite nine days (“you’re a nine-day wonder,” my father would admonish), when it was made very clear to me that tutus and point shoes were reserved for those very much my senior, and so the pink leotard and pink satin ballet slippers – despite the pink satin ribbons attached – rather paled into total ennui when I realized I’d much rather be swimming.


My mother did try to give me some vague encouragement but actually killed the whole idea in me when she took me to see ballet live.


I couldn’t have been more than knee-high to a beer bottle, and I remember sitting in my red velvet seat agog at the theater, the lights, the stage with its red velvet, gold-fringed curtains, and the marvelous slightly dusty smell.


When the dancers proceeded, I was struck by two things. That men certainly shouldn’t go prancing around with socks stuffed down their tights – well indeed, shouldn’t be wearing tights either – and the girls, while looking swanlike and gorgeous, actually made an awful lot of noise clomping around on their point shoes. You see, no one had bothered to tell me the points were actually stuffed with wood.


I did have quite a good run at jazz ballet in my teens and actually thoroughly enjoyed it at school. A class chum and I signed up for a summer school of jazz led by a professional teacher way downtown one year, and we both felt very grown up going all that way on the train to get to the four-week, five-day-a-week class.


We soon realized that our lessons at school were obviously not meant to tax us, as our pro after two days had us going up and down the station steps one at a time, accompanied by the odd groan.


Nope, I’d much rather be swimming.


But in DWTS I can imagine how I would like to have performed way back when, and I’m sure Sir feels the same. We’re as one when it comes to our favorites and those whom we would prefer would get voted out yesterday.


So now that he’s opened himself up to a new televised experience, I have a plan.


I wonder if I could get him to go to dance class with me?


Don’t get your hopes up – I’ll get back to you to let you know how that little suggestion went for me.