All the cells and fibers and guts and stuff that make up my body have banded together into a solid mass, in protest of the dance class I started last night.

My nice hairdresser lady told me about the class when I saw her last week. I agreed to go, based on her assertion that it would be fun, and that she was going, too. The swanky flier she had showed a glamorous pair of eyes adjacent to a description of the class. I guess. I just looked at the eyes, apparently, and was lured in by their beauty, because somehow, I missed the phrase "belly dancing," which as it turns out was the central theme of the class.

I arrived wearing a pair of black pants given to me as a thank-you present by a friend who deals in natural clothing. "Here, have these organic yoga pants!" said the Keelhauler when I showed him, as he mimed gingerly handing them over, to underline his belief in their absurdity. As it turns out, even though they are bell-bottomed, they turned out to be the perfect pants to wear for beating myself into a pulp, which is essentially what happened four minutes into the class.

The instructor, a tiny, lithe woman with long brown hair and luminous sea-green eyes, welcomed us all and encouraged the few of us without jangly ass-scarves to pick one out from a selection she arranged on the floor. I picked out one in leopard spots, with silver coins and beads, for the maximum crazy. At this point, I had started to realize that I might be in for some belly dancing action, but the reality of what that meant had not been driven home.

Soon, the music started, and she led us in a gentle stretching exercise. "Perfect," I thought, ass-scarf jangling against the floor, but after a brief period of stretching, the pain began in the form of evil lunging, swiveling, and shoulder-snapping arm swirls. The rest of the class happily swiveled on, bindis sparkling in the candlelight, as I tried to keep up with the teacher, who was proving herself a cunning combination of exquisite china doll and Stretch Armstrong.

My muscles were aching and my hair was soaking wet, but despite the pain and general lack of coordination, my organic yoga pants and I had a great time. By the time the girl next to me had burst into tears for the second time and run out of class, I was having a damn fine belly-dancing experience. I had no idea I would be so bad at it! It was really fun.

In general, if you want to humiliate yourself in an environment of welcome and self-expression, plus experience lots of sweating and pain, I would highly recommend enrolling in a belly-dance class. For ultimate torture, make sure your instructor is really beautiful and perfectly toned, as well as skilled.

My nice hairdresser lady, it turned out, did not attend the class. It has not totally eluded me that the entire invitation might have been a subtle prank at my expense.

At the end of the class, the instructor grabbed my hand and said, "Violet! You were doing really well! You were doing so well," without adding, "for a total ox." She seemed so sincere, though, that I thanked her and managed to work in that, you know, I have never actually done this form of dance before.

She was very encouraging. I wrote a check for the leopard-print ass-scarf, and put it in my bag.

Then, I signed up for the next six weeks. I mean... what if I'm a natural?

Star of the day. . .Felix Doolittle