Life being the embarrassment that it is, I decided to take dance lessons and give the public a good laugh; these days, there are so few comical moments. I stopped dancing about 20 years ago as none of my boyfriends knew how, so instead we did guy stuff like action flicks, camping and washing his car. I recently discovered a girl can still go dancing without them! Just like in high school.
Forget the waltz; I look awful in a ball gown and, face it, Ginger Rogers I’m not. Tango looks too intimate to practice with some stranger breathing way too close. Yet I wanted excitement, fun, a challenge, a new me -- so I picked Zydeco. Oh, the music! The bands! The quasi-rock, quasi- roll, quasi- foot-stomping, fast and dirty boogying of Louisiana.
Glen Echo offers lots of dance classes. Sadly, at most Washington events, it's all women all the time. And even though that first night was a sad sight, seven men presented themselves! Shy, standing alone, nervous, sweaty palms - and that was just me - we actually had an even count.
The teachers were lively and charming, urging us to form lines and follow a basic count. "And-a-one-and-a -two and a shuffle-shuffle, step." Oh dear. They lost me there.
Let's get back to 'foot-stomping' for a second. We rotated partners every few minutes, giving me the full panoply of sizes, shapes, and styles. Let me apologize right here and now to all the poor fellas who hobbled away from me, grimacing, brushing aside a few hidden tears. I like to think they were they just sad our turn was over.
By the end of the first lesson, we girls were in pretty good form. But the guys were still stomping around, no rhythm, bodies stiff, puzzled by the whole concept. Again, just like in high school except my father wasn’t waiting outside in the car. Oh well, there were still four more classes, and seven hopeful women rolling their eyes.
Dancing is strenuous exercise! Aching doesn't begin to describe my agony the next day; hernias were sprouting all over. Lesson two went better though; we picked up the pace and if one had any natural rhythm at all, it came out. A couple of the guys had obviously practiced and were able to employ simple 'leading' techniques to side-step my feet. But a couple of others still landed right on them. Notice how I project blame.
Our big break came at a real Zydeco dance a few days later, Dancing by the Bayou, and open to the general public. We newbies were encouraged to join in. They must be crazy! A brief lesson was offered first. Instead of 7 guys, there were about 25 attending the class. As I was handed off from one to the other, suddenly a small nervous man of incalculable age landed smack in front of me, wreaking of cologne so overpowering, I asked that we step a few feet apart. He calmly and logically reasoned "I sweat so much, I have to wear it to cover up my smell". As the song goes, “Know When To Hold ‘Em, Know When To Run!”
Then there were the really talented Zydeco regulars who hauled me onto the floor – not realizing they picked a rank beginner - where I was hurled, tossed, and lurched around the room, begging for relief, explaining I had only done this twice before. Forget it, they didn't hear me. Exactly a year after my rotator cuff surgery, one guy nearly ripped my shoulder bone from its socket. A small price to pay for basking in public humiliation.
And while I can certainly appreciate the appeal of public dances, one better recognize the hierarchy -- those who are experienced dancers and those who are wannabe's -- because it appears never the twain shall meet! If you're no good, you're wallpaper. So on that note, my dance lessons ended.
What's my next step, so to speak? Well, in response to television's hit show "So You Think You Can Dance!”, the answer is "Yes, I think I can!" Too bad no one else does. Tennis anyone?
