Monday, June 28, 2010

The Dance Gene

Years ago, a 95-year-old man asked me to dance at a wedding and halfway through the song he insisted we stop.

“You have two left feet!” He said and turned to find another, more rhythmic dance partner.

Unfortunately for me, he was right. Even though I took cello, flute, and piano lessons at various points growing up, and wasn’t terrible at any of them, it appears that I’m unable to learn rhythm when it comes to my feet.

I’ve always hated dancing. Well, let me clarify that statement. I’ve always hated dancing near other humans. I feel fine dancing around my apartment alone—arms flailing Elaine Benes-like, feet jumping up and down, tripping over each other every so often, teeth firmly planted in lower lip. I’m just not convinced the world needs to see that side of me.

When I met Mr. Cathedral Heights, I was happy to find out that he didn’t care for dancing either. With a bit of disbelief, he embraced the fact that I was missing that girly desire to go out dancing or, “the dance gene,” as he calls it.

Nope, I never feel the need to join a bunch of gals, get dressed up, and shake my booty in a club filled with sweaty people, booming music, and flashing lights. Of course, there were times when I would follow my girlfriends into dance clubs, attempting to mimic their moves on the dance floor but instead over-analyzing every awkward movement my body made.

I tried to think of a way out of the whole dancing segment of the wedding, but couldn’t come up with anything. I remember my brother once saying that if he ever got married there would be a no dancing policy strictly enforced at his wedding, but somehow that just didn’t seem realistic for my upcoming nuptuals. So, I am going to have to dance. In front of 150 people!

Mr. CH and I signed up for social dance classes at the Joy of Motion Dance Center, in hopes that this will help make the first dance a little less painful (for Mr. CH’s feet). We’ve attended two classes so far and I’m already convinced that I’m the worst student of the bunch and holding the entire class back. However, through all the self-criticism, I have to admit that I’m having a good time trying to get in touch with my feet. If I can improve a bit—and figure out how to let Mr. CH lead—I think I might have fun on that dance floor.

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