Putting the Balls in Ballroom

The Holland America brochure extols the luxury of the penthouse suite that I am scheduled to travel in this July. It also describes the privileges that this class of accommodation bestows on me. Apparently I will be separated from the lower classes with my own fleet of servants, a bar/lounge that the riff-raff can't chat with me in, and a place at the captain's table. Obviously, I need to put some hoit in my toit before I take this journey up into the wilds of Alaska. It's time I learn how to dance. I can no longer get by with the alcohol-fueled improvisation that has served me well at weddings and nightclubs. No. It's time I learn the real deal. Stone sober dancing, otherwise known as "American Smooth and Latin Ballroom I." I sign up for lessons.

The dance instructor looks like a miniature gypsy. Her bright silver shoes are topped by a lemon yellow ruffled skirt, white blouse, and black shawl. A satin ribbon wraps around her head and trails down her back. Long jet black earrings hang to her shoulders. She's as cute as a button and makes me feel graceless in my jeans and brown loafers. She begins by telling us how we must start with the fundamentals. We need to stand properly, erect with knees slightly bent.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall and try to improve my posture. Tummy in, shoulders back, not too far back because now my tits stick out, just back enough to lift them a bit. I roll my hips forward slightly and drop my tush down bending my knees. If standing still is this much work, dancing is going to be impossible! I look at the other couples in the room. They seem to be standing without effort. My Partner grins back at me. He also finds standing easy.
"Very good!" the instructor tells us. My Partner and I swell with pride at our obviously superior standing ability! And now it's time to move.

The Gypsy demonstrates the basic footwork for the Tango. Two slow steps forward for My Partner, two slow steps backward for me, then one quick one back and another quick one to the side with a slow elegant close. Uh huh. Got it. Slow, Slow, Quick, Quick, Close. Slow, Slow, Quick, Quick, Close. Alrighty! This is GREAT! I'm dancing! In a straight line backwards. In a room with walls. TURN! TURN! How do we TURN???

Turning is not that difficult if the leader leads and the follower follows. So says The Gypsy. "Leading," she tells me, "is walking forward and directing your partner. Following, on the other hand, is walking backwards in a direction that you cannot see. Following is an exercise in trust." I inwardly cringe. The Gypsy doesn't realize how profound her statement is and how it cuts to the core of who I am. I am not a follower. And I certainly cannot trust someone else with the direction I must go. No. Sorry. My dance career has ended before it has begun. There will be no roses clenched in my teeth while the seductive rhythms of the Tango play. The impossibility of it all comes crashing down around me. I am doomed to the drunken gyrations of the riff raff. I console myself that at least that form of dance allows me to self determine.

The Gypsy has not noticed the personal crisis that she has caused. She claps her hands and moves on to points of contact and more advanced footwork. She tells me my job as the follower is to stay in My Partner's hand. I can only do this if I provide a strong frame for My Partner's points of contact. I must be unyielding and firm. A leader cannot lead a soft noodle. The follower must be strong. Strong! Unyielding and firm! Now THAT I can do! My dance career is reborn. The tooth-clenched rose becomes possible again. I smile at My Partner.

"I haven't seen you smile this genuinely in a very long time," My Partner says.

"I like dancing," I reply.