I'm no Ginger Rogers or Jennifer Beals but I can generally tell my left foot from my right (depending on how much sleep I got the night before). An added bonus is, somewhere deep within my psyche, there is a primal monkey beating on a drum, teaching me how to keep time. I don't know where this monkey came from - one of the wierd ancestors of my primitive past, I suppose. But he's there, none-the-less, in spite of my failures in music training as a child.
Seventeen years ago I convinced my husband that dance lessons would enhance our marriage. He was not as convinced. But he joined me anyway, likely assuming that it would go the way of many of my wacky ideas - down the toilet. He is a good sport, I will give him that.
What began as dabbling turned into a full-on, long-term contact sport and, outside of some minor (and major) lapses, we've kept at it. Having taken a few years sabbatical from dance instruction, we're back at it. I know it sounds romantic (at least to the female contingent) but a typical night at dance class sounds something like this:
Debra: And 1,2,3,and 1,2,3, and...stop, stop, stop. Your feet are officially moving to a different song. Is that an earbud stuck in your ear?
Brenda: Okay, so you're telling me that on "and" my right foot is poised, weight on my left. Then you say move your left foot on "one." I don't know about you, but that is a contradiction in physics and I aced physics (LIE).
Debra: Let me show you. (Debra proceeds to move into lead position, swooping me off my clumsy feet and through one entire dance maneouvre). There, you just did it. It's that simple.
Brenda (quietly to Al): I have no idea what I just did but I'm seeing spots. Is the room spinning?
Debra: Men, when your turning your lady through an allamande be sure to keep your elbows in. If you're not careful you'll bruise her "girls" and be walking home or sporting a black eye...or both. Now, let's get back to it. I'll pick up the tempo a bit and we'll start with a lady-inside-turn, cross-body lead into a series of feather steps into an impetus turn, and end with a cross-body-check-into-the-boards.
Brenda: What did she just say?
Al: I don't know but we can fake it. We have been for years.
Brenda: Huh?
Al: Okay, let me lead, all right? I'm the guy, remember? And 1,2,3...and 1,2,3.
Brenda (mumbling under her breath): I'll let you lead when you can get it right. Don't you tell me to let you lead. I'll decide when you can be the boss, Mr. Bossy.
Romantic, uh huh! Over the years I've (through tears) bent a toe nail back to its original state, made unflattering butt contact with hardwood floor and taken a good left hook to the nose. And this does not even begin to uncover the carnage to Al's anatomy. Guys have to endure the excruciating phenomenon of a stilleto heel on a crowded dance floor, which, when strategically placed into the heel of his shoe can take out an ankle bone in one fell swoop.
But at the end of the day, or a really great dance party when the steps all come together, we can enjoy the drive home, sweat on our brows and music still ringing in our ears. Those are the nights when we negotiate through a knowing smile, "You can be the lead on the dance floor if I get to lead at home...and at work...and everywhere else." He will grin and wink - a wise man. For it's lies like these that make the bed springs more springy. Romance.
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