Frumpy Mom: I had a ball in Vienna. Two of them, in fact.

I just flew back from Vienna (the one in Austria, not the one with the FBI Headquarters) and, boy, are my arms tired. I know,  I know, that’s stupid. But I’m still jetlagged.

In case you haven’t kept up, I went to Austria in the dead of the freezing northern winter because I’d read that you burn more calories when it’s cold, plus the combined weight of my polar-equipped arctic parka, hat, boots, scarf, socks, tights and gloves — which I had to put on just to walk outside — was equal to carrying around a couple of dumbbells all day long. And it worked. I came home three pounds lighter.

All that is true, but I really went to Vienna because I scored a cheap airfare, and then discovered ordinary people can actually go to old-fashioned balls there in the winter, just by buying a ticket. Yes, the kind where you dance the waltz in fancy dresses, tailcoats and tuxedos. There are hundreds of them, in a tradition dating back to the 18th century. The season kicks off every year on 11/11 at 11:11 a.m. which is the first day of Carnival season, and it lasts until Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. Even the chimney sweeps have a ball. And the lawyers, though I can’t help wondering what kinds of slip-and-fall lawsuits come from going up and down the slick marble staircases in long dresses.

But please don’t worry. Even though I have now been to an elegant ball at the Imperial Hofburg Palace — a real actual place where emperors lived and ruled for hundreds of years —and also another ball at the luxurious concert home of the legendary Vienna Philharmonic, I haven’t let this go to my head.

I’m still willing to engage with you mere mortals, even though you were probably watching the playoffs in your sweats and spilling chips down the sofa cushions while I was walking through the Imperial ballroom in my glittering, sequined gown.

I went with my friend, Lori, who was just wacky enough to say “yes” back in September, when I proposed that we should fly to Vienna in January to attend a ball. It may surprise you to learn that not everyone wants to fly 12 hours to Europe just to squeeze into a formal gown and pretend to know how to waltz.

But I always had this Cinderella fantasy, which I blame on Walt Disney, and I decided that being old as dirt was as good a reason as any to engage in fantasy behavior, like going to a ball in a palace.

While we were in Vienna, we also did other classic Vienna things, like go to see the magnificent snow-white Lippizan stallions at the Spanish Riding School.  And wander through the Empress Sisi’s private rooms at the Sisi Museum.  And view the famous Klimt paintings such as “The Kiss,” which were breathtaking, at the Belvedere — another palace turned into a museum. We went to see an opera. Drinking coffee there is elevated to an art form, and every cup seemed like deliciousness sent from heaven.

I also forced myself to eat wiener schnitzel for the second and last time, in an attempt to be culturally appropriate, because someone made fun of me for eating sushi on my first night there. Trust me, you don’t have to do this.

Wiener schnitzel consists of a veal cutlet that’s been pounded thin, breaded and fried. One order is as big as a Volkswagen, so easy to share. I guess if you want to eat baby calves who aren’t even weaned yet, and foods that are breaded and fried, then you might like it. Personally, I find it disgusting. Oh, and did I mention that it comes with flavorless boiled potatoes? That just adds to the appeal. I love many things about Austria, but the cuisine? No thanks.

Lori and I took an emergency waltz lesson from instructor Thomas Lang at the Tanzschule Dorner (dance school), who kindly met with us and let us step on his feet for two hours. He played Disney music to learn the waltz steps, because he said his students are always familiar with it. I also learned to my chagrin that the Viennese waltz is much faster than regular waltz steps, so I could step on people’s feet even more often. Still, Thomas pretended like we were doing great, which I’m sure makes him a great instructor.

Our first ball was on a Thursday night, at the Musikverein, which is the posh, gilded music hall where concerts for the famed Vienna Philharmonic take place. Once a year, they take out all the seats and lay down a dance floor, then sell tickets for 3,700 of the city’s most elegant citizens to cram in. This year’s tickets sold out in 80 minutes, I was told, even though you have to go down and stand in line in the cold to buy them at the box office.

It was posh. It was breathtaking. Ladies wore elegant gowns. Some were clearly couture, others were off-the-rack like mine. Men were required to wear white tie and tailcoats, and if they showed up without a white tie, they could buy one there. It was lovely to behold. Lori and I sat in one of the bars for an hour, just watching the elegant gowns swish by.

Every hour or so, there was a special event such as a concert by an opera singer, or a special dance performed inexpertly by the crowd, to hilarious results. The philharmonic ball was all about tradition.

The second we attended — the Coffee Brewers Ball — was at the Imperial Hofburg Palace. We had spent 210 Euros each for our tickets, and we got our money’s worth, as it lasted from 9 p.m. to 4:30 a.m. There were separate ballrooms for waltzing, doing the tango, disco dancing and more. It was 10 parties in one and entire adult families seemed to join in. Unlike many of the Viennese attending, we only made it until 1:30 a.m. when our feet were killing us and we couldn’t even bear to look at another glass of champagne.

The next day, I did not get out of bed, preferring to lie there and dream about my fantasy balls. I still have my glittery ball gown, so I could go back someday. But definitely no glass slippers. Or wiener schnitzel.