That stupid joke goes through my head every time I try to dance at the ball. When I lived in the United States I avoided most physical activity requiring anything resembling coordination. I don’t know whether people are more active here in Austria — I suspect they are — or whether it’s just me trying to be more active with my kids, but I find myself doing things here that remind me painfully of my career as a consumer of the physical education dished out in the public school system of my country of birth. Same as then, if they picked teams for these things, I wouldn’t get picked last, but only thanks to the halt and the lame. Skiing. Rowing. Playing cello. Ballroom dancing.

But, you do it and it doesn’t kill you.

There was a big difference this year, too: I danced with my daughter. What can I say? Proud dad. Classy kid. I managed not to cry noticeably on the dance floor.