I’ve always been a fan of the saying, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” I sleep with the… I’ve always been a fan of the saying, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” I sleep with the same number of pillows every night, go to the gym just about the same time every day, and have a pretty standard order when I go out for dinner. Usually, I defend my lack of variety by snidely saying, “I just know what I like.”

However, sometimes you have to go out on a limb.

My break in my standard weekend routine of going to bed at some ungodly hour in the a.m., sleeping until some ungodly hour in the p.m., bathing, and finally trooping around the streets of Oakland with my friends came on Saturday. One of my more original pals announced that we were all going to go — brace yourself — country line dancing. It is still unknown how she knew about this place, and I am still in a state of shock that we were able to get our acts together and organize this little charade.

After an hour of traveling some middle-of-nowhere, straight-out-of-a-horror-flick, sketchy-ass back roads we found ourselves in, well, Texas, apparently. Our little white sedan rolled into a sea of pickup trucks complete with bumper stickers that read, “A good cowboy is packed like a can of biscuits!” Like it or not, there was no turning back now.

Upon entering what looked like an old bowling alley, we were greeted by a heavy-set, older man sporting one of the finest mullets I’ve ever seen, which was very impressive, seeing as I’ve lived in Pittsburgh for three years. He took our money and encouraged us to “Start boozing and get dancing!”

I’ve never been one to shy away from the dance floor. Then again, I’d never been line dancing before. I grabbed my friend and we got on the floor just as they were wrapping up a lesson on how to properly two-step. We missed most of the instruction, but figured, how hard can it be? The music started and I’d say our performance was on par with Shaquille O’Neal — should he ever decide to make an appearance in “Swan Lake.” Not exactly graceful.

A few squashed toes later, we decided that two-stepping was for the birds and we would stick to the straight line dancing, figuring, how coordinated could a bunch of white people accessorized with cowboy hats be? Turns out, extremely coordinated. These rodeo regulars were phenomenal. They would stomp, kick, click, and turn faster than I could blink. Now that I think about it, I’m “that girl” who still has to use her thumb and index finger to make the “L” to determine her right from her left, so this probably wasn’t the best of ideas.

They had a different dance for every song that came on. Just as we were beginning to pick up the steps, the song was over and the vicious cycle of us looking like complete and utter a-holes would repeat once again. If you ever need to be humbled quickly, I suggest going country line dancing.

Towards the end of the night, I thought I was going to be saved. The DJ announced the next song would be the electric slide. Now, I’m no big fan of this wedding reception staple, but at least it was something I knew. I should have known better. I’m not that lucky. The country version is a bit fancier than the standard slide, slide, step-back deal that people who don’t wear plaid shirts and bandanas are used to.

By this point, I’m covered in sweat, frustrated, and I can take a hint. Completely a fish out of water, I decided it was time to pack it in.

The whole car ride home, between bites of buffalo chicken sandwiches, we can’t quit talking about how much fun we had. Unable to control our laughter, we reflected on the events that transpired that night, from one of us dancing with a guy not a day younger than 85 years old, to those of us who couldn’t quite maintain our equilibrium after a few cervezas and paid for it by falling on the dance floor and being trampled by a stampede of boot-scootin’ boogiers.

Routine is a reliable, standard way to maintain a comfortable lifestyle. And while I don’t plan on buying a pair of chaps anytime soon, I am going to try to step out of my comfort zone a little more often. Even though it makes you look more awkward than Michael Jordan when he was playing baseball, and feel completely out of place, it sure is a hell of a lot of fun. Who knows, maybe I’ll get totally crazy and order a slice of lemon in my Diet Coke next time I’m out to dinner.

Colleen Bayus looks forward to reading e-mail that doesn’t say, “Hey! Come check out my new Web cam!” Drop her a line at [email protected]