After about the 47th night in a row of sitting with my wife watching lifestyle television shows, I had a stunning revelation: "I have to get out of this house!"

Ever since the birth of our daughter, Quinn, three years ago, Jennifer and I had become housebound. I missed our nights out together. Quinn was old enough now so that we should be able to venture out occasionally. The question was: where? I didn't want to go to the cinema to watch an Ang Lee film, and hanging around a bar pitching darts wasn't tops on Jennifer's list. Friends had taken dance classes and loved it. The last time I'd danced was years ago in university. And that was on top of a table gyrating to Blondie.

"Want to take dance classes?" I asked.

After the initial guffaws, she actually considered it. We're not exactly the dancing type. Jennifer had sworn off anything physical after her days as a secondary school soccer player when she sat on the bench holding the other players' jewellery. But she, too, longed to get out. The problem was that she was busy with a big project at work, and she didn't want to be away from Quinn any more than she had to. We decided I'd stick my toe in the water, and if I liked it, she'd join later.

So, I tippety-tapped my way to Dance New York, Westchester, my local ballroom dance school. I signed up for the beginner's class, a set of five two-hour sessions, where I hoped to come away tops in the fox trot, merengue, swing and salsa.

As my classmates and I waited to begin, some took off work shoes in favour of dance shoes. There was a nod, a quick "hi," but little mingling. We almost seemed embarrassed, we grownups, about going back to school.

My class of 30 ranged from recent university graduates to pensioners. Some could probably trace their ancestry to the Mayflower; for others English was a second language. There were people in good shape and people without a shape. My class consisted mostly of couples, with a few single women. I was the only man without a partner.

"All royt, boys on one side, guhls on the utha!!" That was Clive Phillips. He and his wife, Suzanne, were the owners of the studio and our teachers. Clive, a two-time national ballroom champ, is a lanky Australian with an easy grin. Suzanne, a gorgeous redhead, was a featured dancer at Radio City Music Hall. At least I was in capable hands.

I lined up with the boys on one side facing the "guhls." It was just like secondary school but with one big difference - here they had to dance with me.

"Let's fox trot!" yelled Clive. My life as a modern-day Fred Astaire was about to begin! All that was missing were my top hat and tails. Clive demonstrated the basic steps: "Slow, slow, quick-quick."

I was already lost.

He then added a promenade - make a V-shape with your partner, and then take a couple of forward steps, with an abrupt head-whipping turn to the left thrown in for good measure.

"Now you try," said Clive.

I followed suit, adding a few flourishes along the way: slow, slow, quick-quick-stumble, stumble-stumble, stop, look confused, step, watch, stop, quit.

With the possible exception of listening to an eight-year-old trying to tell a joke, there's nothing more excruciating than watching novices learn a dance. We're awkward, unsure of ourselves and completely vulnerable.

"Grab a paht-nuh," yelled Clive. Husbands and wives paired off. My partner is Gail, a gum-chewing baby boomer. I take her hand in mine and place my right hand on her shoulder. She places her left hand on my right arm and blows a bubble. It's show time!

"Slow, slow, quick-quick," intoned Clive as we followed his moves.

"You're doing it wrong," said Gail. She corrected the way I held her hand, where my other hand should be on her back, my footwork. I reminded her that as the male, I was the captain of our little ship and she should follow my lead, even if we were headed straight for an iceberg.

"Fix your elbow," she said. We'd barely pulled up anchor, and already my crew had mutinied and taken over.

"Change paht-nuhs!" Clive and Suzanne have us changing partners frequently so that everyone experiences different styles of dancing (read that to mean "suffers equally").

My next victim was Beth. She greeted me by admitting she had no clue what she was doing. Good! I was free to lead as I saw fit.

"Sorry," I said as I led her into a chair.

"Sorry," I said after I kneed her.

"Sorry," I said as I threw her into another couple.

"Dance is supposed to be fun!" yelled Clive, possibly working off my partner's concerned expression.

"I'm failing dance class," I told Jennifer when I got home. She sympathised for a bit, until Quinn came out to perform. Coincidentally, Quinn had begun dance classes that day too. She had poise and grace, and knew her choreography. How is it possible that my three-year-old daughter is doing better than I am?

"It's salsa. It's supposed to be sexy!" yells Clive the following week.

Clive was on an impossible mission to get the rod out of our collective butts. Salsa means "spicy sauce," and as a Latin dance, it's just that. It oozes sensuality. Or at least it's supposed to.

To that end, Clive made us bend our knees, swivel our hips and punch out the driving beat of the music with the balls of our feet. With our bodies heaving, our necks bobbing and our legs undulating, we looked like a room full of vomiting dogs. To my mind, ours was a group that looked better stiff.

The fact is, at this stage in the dance game, sex is the last thing we beginners are worrying about. We've got a foot fetish going on - and with our own feet. Because that's all we're doing -?taring at our feet and wondering why they haven't learned the steps. And yet the sexy stuff will come, Suzanne assures us, especially if we take our eyes off our feet.

It's a simple concept, and when Clive and Suzanne dance, I get it. During one of their biweekly parties, they stepped out on centre stage and waltzed. And believe me, it wasn't the waltz that Cinderella and the prince danced. No, no. This was graceful and beautiful and, oh, so sensual. They were more than dance partners; they were lovers.

In watching them, we novices saw the possibilities.

I don't know why I thought I could master ballroom dancing in just a few classes. But it didn't take long to discover it's really hard. I needed a sympathetic ear, and knew just whom to call.

"I know your pain. I know your pain," says John O'Hurley, after listening to my horror stories. If it weren't for the likes of O'Hurley, the champ of Dancing With the Stars, ballroom dancing would not have become the social monster it is.

"I grew up a little country club kid in Connecticut, so I had no cultural reference for it." He was talking about the challenge of learning the cha-cha. "My hips had never moved that way."

"But what can I do?" I pleaded. John gave me three tips.

"Ditch the Reebok Classics," was his first. I'd been wearing my favourite sneakers to class and he didn't approve. "Good dance shoes," he said, "are like a good pair of driving gloves." The shoes are highly flexible and the suede soles make it easier to glide across the floor.

"Move from the centre of your body" was his second suggestion. John bemoaned the fact that most beginners are too busy concentrating on their legs. "Once you learn to relax your legs and move from the core of your abdomen, everything else becomes much simpler."

"What's the third suggestion?"

"Keep a long neck," he said. "It'll give you height, and your body will follow your head." Then he added, "If nothing else, at least it'll make you look like a dancer."

The following class, I did as John had instructed. I bought new shoes - black-and-white jobs that looked like high-end bowling shoes. They did make moving across the floor more pleasant, as I was no longer sticking to it. By concentrating on working from the core of my body, I didn't have quite the herky-jerky movement one gets when relying solely on the legs. And finally, I kept my neck long. So at least, I hoped, I looked the part.

It all helped.

"But it wasn't enough," I told Jennifer after she put Mini-Martha Graham to bed. All the other couples were laughing and having fun. My partners have been great - friendly, forgiving, supportive. But still, "I'm not enjoying it as much as everyone else. Something's missing."

Jennifer spotted the problem. "Want me to take the class with you?"

"What about your boss, and Quinn?"

She knew something I didn't: I needed her more than they did.

Jennifer jumped into dance class with gusto. And as expected, she was just as bad as me. She had trouble with her basics, her promenades were anything but, and her turns were merely big veers. Our arms got tangled and our knees knocked. And strangely enough, we were laughing as hard as I could remember. But every so often, we even got a step right. We performed a near-perfect basic and promenade. And we beamed when Suzanne smiled and said, "You got it!"

We left class on a high, to Clive's declaration not to practise at home. "You'll just reinforce all your bad habits," he explained, bucking up my confidence.

At home, I put Quinn to bed, then came out to the living room.

"Let's practise," said Jennifer.

"Clive said we're not supposed to."

"Clive's not here," she said, assuming the dance position.

The fact is, I'll probably never get all the steps down or stop crashing my knees into those of my partner. But as I danced with Jennifer, I got to laugh with and hold the one person I most wanted to laugh with and hold.

Clive's mantra to "just have fun!" finally made sense. I was no longer a slave to my feet. They could do their own damn dance steps as far as I was concerned. If the right wanted to salsa while the left did the swing, so be it. I was now free to hold my wife in my arms - arguably for the first time since our daughter was born and our lives grew so hectic.

It was sexy and exhilarating, silly and hilarious. Whether it's the fox trot, the tango or the funky chicken - and whether you're in it to raise your energy level or to play Fred and Ginger for one night a week - ultimately, dancing is about having fun.

And I was finally having fun.