Dancing? Matze must have completely lost his mind. I don't dance. Could it be any more uncool? He loves but does not loosen. There were a lot of madels at the dance class. Na and? The whole school was full of madels. They were everywhere, so why dance class?? Because the girls are crazy for boys who can dance properly! Real? Yes. I really did not want to learn to dance.
The hope was still, that my parents would not print out the money for it. After all, if I remember correctly, it was about a whopping 130 marks. That's how the money used to be. And 130 units of this was something to do in the 70s. Just for comparison. The pack of cigarettes cost three marks (equal to one euro fifty).
After the oil crisis, the price of gasoline had shot up from around 60 pfennigs per liter in 1972 to over 80 pfennigs in 1976. That was a real upset. Today it was less than 50 cents. Anyway, we should want to dance. I don't know if there was more than one dance school at the time. We knew only one, where apparently all learned the controlled collective hopsasa. My parents were overwhelmed by the stupid idea. It was never easier to wrest such an amount from them. They really squeezed the dough out of me! And we were already thinking out loud about what I was going to wear to the prom. Ball? Does the madness know no bounds?
Delivered by euphoric parents in front of this arena full of dancing madels, we jerked in – and loved the extreme jaw drop. There wasn't a single one of them that would have been worth the auand and the many deutschmarks we had to make. There was no going back.
In the end, only heavy protection helped
We trampled in time back and forth and sweaty wet hands holding in a circle. At some point, the resolute lady with the commanding voice of a drill instructor in the marines put an end to the suffering. So were we. We immediately introduced ourselves to the lady and explained to her that for both of us there would certainly be no way through this valley of dancing rootlessness. We would now like to have the already refunded amount back, in order to put it to a more sensible use in our eyes. But this seemed to be out of the question for the lady. The negotiations continued. They gained momentum and hard.
In the end only heavy protection helped: "believe us – it is absolutely in your interest, if we don't show up here every week and put your assertiveness to the test. A very, very tough test… Ask our teachers! "She jerked out the money. Ours, my first dance lesson remained also the last one. Whether I regretted it?
Clear! Quite often even. But I always got over it quite well. However, the idea of having my parents drive me to dances once a week instead of celebrating hopsasa in dance class, juchheirassa in the scotch club or in la fontaine (the older ones still know both) was not a good one. Not good at all. It was bound to blow up – and it did, very quickly. But until then it was very cool… And there was no dancing.