Tommy Tune isn’t knocking at my door. There’s no evidence of caviar and absinthe seducing me at the hand of George Balanchine. And oh, it doesn’t matter.

Because on Wednesday nights at Agoura Hills Dance Studio, I’m tapping to my heart’s content without a standing “O” or the merest semblance of talent. No paparazzi. No flash dancing. Just an old gal reliving what it’s like to tap dance. Scary, isn’t it?

“Five, six, seven, eight!”

Hey—what happened to 1, 2, 3 and 4? I had ’em a minute ago. I’m still trying to get started and the teacher’s at 5, 6, 7 and 8.

Uh-oh.

I stand out like a cheeseburger at an ice cream party. Pink tights, slim lithe bodies with delicate fingers and willowy limbs populate the hallway. Pastels to the left, teeny-weeny bodies to the right. And in the center: moi —in all my gelatinous loveliness.

At my age, I can jiggle without moving a finger. Are you jealous?

As I enter, the young nymphs stare with youthful wonderment:

“Is she lost?” they ponder. “So this is the Queen of Hearts for ‘Alice in Wonderland’? Maybe someone should call 911? Have the floors been reinforced with steel?”

No, fair ladies. I’m one of you, I’ve just been in the plumper a little longer.

Young innocent things, I am a card-carrying member of the adult tap class—no hormones required. I squeeze my keister onto the long narrow bench and attempt to bend over to lace up my tap shoes.

If I can accomplish this, I’m squared away for the evening. Watch out, “Chorus Line”—the big bad butt with the gnarly cellulite is gonna rock the joint.

Literally and figuratively.

“One . . . singular sensation . . . every little step she takes . . .”

Tah-dah. The tap shoes have been affixed to the gnarly tootsies and wow . . . they work! Uh . . . the taps, not the feet. Just like the salesgirl said they would. The taps, that is.

“Tappity tap . . . tap tap tap . . .”

I check out the mirrors and decide why bad eyesight has become an advantage.

Even with well-aged vision, uncorked upon demand, it isn’t pretty.

And oh, don’t forget to make a pit stop in the potty before the first hop. As Will Rogers said, “You know you’re getting old when everything dries up or leaks.”

Are you with me? The music floats through the studio, lifting the innocent dancers as they gracefully file in like butterflies around a rose. Slowly, I lumber into the studio, take a deep breath, check out the competition, suck in my tummy and wonder if I should have crammed my orthotics into my tap shoes.

“You’re nobody ’til somebody loves you . . .”

Okay, I’m ready, girls. Ready in the “no tutus allowed” zone for those over 40 when Mother Nature has abandoned your sorry derrière and relocated to greener pastures.

Even without the crack of the metronome, the sound of the taps clicking on the wood floor and the smell of the rosin bag is just . . . wonderful.

“If you ever plan to motor west,

Travel my way, take the high way that is best.

Get your kicks on route sixty six.”

This is a blast . . . so why do we refrain from trying something out of the norm?

That’s easy. Because learning new tricks when your hormones come in a bottle is like making a chocolate cake out of raisins.

Rather unlikely, I’d say.

I jumped in. My brain is learning a new vocabulary, and my feet are learning new tricks. So far the brain is winning. It’s “slap, shuffle, heel, shift my weight, step, bend, slap, heel, shuffle” and well, by that point, Buffalo is looking pretty darn far away. In fact, the only way I’ll bumble my way to Buffalo is by Greyhound.

Next week, piano lessons.

Five, six, seven, eight . . . You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.