Perhaps the cruelest reality that I’ve had to come to terms with in a life full of cruel realities is the fact that I have no sense of rhythm.
When I say that I have no sense of rhythm, I mean that I have no sense of rhythm whatsoever. When I was in basic training in the Army, I set a regimental record of sorts by being the first private in living memory who could not grasp the concept of swinging my arms and legs alternately. Instead, I sort of lurched around, rocking from side to side, moving my left arm with my left leg and my right arm with my right leg, like some sort of camouflage Frankenstein. The other guys in my unit, needless to say, found this really, really funny.
So, imagine my misgivings at the prospect of taking ballroom dance lessons.
I can’t pretend that anyone talked me into these lessons. I walked into this with my eyes open - though as I stumble around, trying desperately to remember what I’m supposed to do with my left foot, I can’t for the life of me remember why.
“No, Dear,” explains my instructor for the fourth or fifth time, sighing slightly, “it’s slow, slow, quick-quick, slow…”
“Oh,” I say with a thoughtful expression, trying to look like I understand what she’s talking about. “What was I doing?”
She thinks for a second before answering.
“I’m not really sure,” she says in a bemused sort of way.
“Look, it’s really very simple. Just walk forward with your left foot. You’re just taking a couple of steps. It’s walking – you’ve been walking forever. Trust me; you can do this.”
That’s easy for her to say.
Admittedly, I have been walking my whole life – though not always very successfully – and if this was just a matter of walking, I could probably do it. But it isn’t just walking forward; it’s walking forward, on the beat, making sure my to keep my arms held in such a way that my partner doesn’t slap me, while trying to remember when I’m supposed to step to the side and put my weight on my other foot. It’s as if you were juggling flaming torches while riding a unicycle and someone told you to blow smoke rings. “Oh come on,” they might say, “they’re only smoke rings – what’s so hard about that?”
One of the many confusing aspects of this whole process is the inappropriateness of the term “foxtrot”. I understand that there aren’t any actual foxes on the dance floor, but somehow I can’t seem to shake the conviction that there should be some sort of trotting involved.
“Please don’t hop like that,” the instructor says with a wince as I fumble my way through an unfortunate series of steps. “Just slide your foot across the floor. Why are you jumping around so much?”
“I’m trotting,” I explain brightly.
She sighs again. She’s done this a lot this afternoon.
“Let’s take a different approach to this,” she says extra-patiently. “I think I know what’s giving your trouble – it’s the terms ‘quick’ and ‘slow’. You feel like you need to jump off to the side really quickly when it’s time for a quick step. Is that right?”
“Yes”, I want to say – “Well, that and staying upright and the whole moving-in-rhythm thing,” but I nod instead.
“I knew it! Why don’t we try this instead? Instead of my saying ‘slow, slow, quick-quick’, why don’t I say, ‘step and step and step-step’ instead?”
I nod vigorously. I have no idea what she is talking about, but I’m so embarrassed at this point that I’m willing to do anything to buy myself some time. With any luck, one of us will have a stroke before the next set of steps is over and neither of us will have to worry about this again.
She re-cues the music and claps her hands softly in time to the beat.
“And five, six, seven, eight!” she says, a little desperately, nodding for me to begin dancing. “Step…aaand step…aaand step-step…”
I’m not sure why, but it works. Somehow, inexplicably, I dance.
The music stops and I smile. The instructor smiles. Not wanting to push my luck, I nod my head in what I hope is a posture of quiet dignity, then walk off the dance floor.
