I am not exactly what you would call smooth on my feet.
Mrs. EC and I took swing and salsa dancing lessons in Medford a couple of years ago.Mrs.EC was very good. To say I had two left feet would be an insult to left feet everywhere. Let’s just say that after four weeks, Mrs. EC was ready to do all sorts of swooping, jiving, spinning moves. I was happy that I had almost mastered the rock step. One, two, three four and back two three four. And this was only with Michael Jordanesque amounts of concentration, sweat and focus.
The instructors were very sweet, but for the first time in my life, I was in a “classroom” setting where I was the one who needed the extra help.
Once per class, the dance teacher would take my hand and try to show me how not to trip all over myself.
“There, loosen up, listen to the groove of the music,” she would say.
Every week, I would make the same spastic steps and lurch toward the center of the dance floor. Whatever groove was going on in my head apparently had more to do with some kind of Devo song than with whatever swing classic was playing over the sound system.For someone who loves music so much, missing the beat that badly was a source of great embarrassment.
Eventually, the instructors must have felt bad for Mrs. EC, so I got stuck in the remedial dance group while Mrs. EC got to go off and dance with people who had graduated beyond the modified stutter step. The missus got to do the advanced moves while I swayed gently back and forth with a group of middle-aged who probably hand’t left the house since the Carter administration. Having almost mastered the box step, I was far and away the Baryshnikof of this group.
“That’s good,” the instructor would say to the ladies. “You’re moving your feet one after the other. It’s called DANCING. Good job. Those sounds you hear with your ears are called MUSIC. Very good ladies. And EC.”
Eventually, I got to dance with Mrs. EC again, and although not up to her level, at least I didn’t hurt her or myself.
Sometimes, we’ll be at weddings, and people will comment on what good dancers we are. Guess my remedial lessons paid off.
The instructors were very sweet, but for the first time in my life, I was in a “classroom” setting where I was the one who needed the extra help.
Once per class, the dance teacher would take my hand and try to show me how not to trip all over myself.
“There, loosen up, listen to the groove of the music,” she would say.
Every week, I would make the same spastic steps and lurch toward the center of the dance floor. Whatever groove was going on in my head apparently had more to do with some kind of Devo song than with whatever swing classic was playing over the sound system.For someone who loves music so much, missing the beat that badly was a source of great embarrassment.
Eventually, the instructors must have felt bad for Mrs. EC, so I got stuck in the remedial dance group while Mrs. EC got to go off and dance with people who had graduated beyond the modified stutter step. The missus got to do the advanced moves while I swayed gently back and forth with a group of middle-aged who probably hand’t left the house since the Carter administration. Having almost mastered the box step, I was far and away the Baryshnikof of this group.
“That’s good,” the instructor would say to the ladies. “You’re moving your feet one after the other. It’s called DANCING. Good job. Those sounds you hear with your ears are called MUSIC. Very good ladies. And EC.”
Eventually, I got to dance with Mrs. EC again, and although not up to her level, at least I didn’t hurt her or myself.
Sometimes, we’ll be at weddings, and people will comment on what good dancers we are. Guess my remedial lessons paid off.
posted by endangered coffee at 8:41 PM
Where ya been for the past... um... many, many months? LOL!
Came here from Suldog. I'm not the world's best dancer either!!
My Grandma was a dance instructor. The only time she ever pulled me onto a dance floor, I trod on her feet three separate times, while she was attempting to give me a quick lesson, and she finally asked me to sit down, having completely given up on me. My own Grandma! So, I have accepted the fact that I cannot dance. It hasn't been easy, since I'm a decent athlete and also a former paid musician, but it's a fact. I can't dance.