The Dance of La-huv...

Last night was the last class of the dance course. The new one starts up in a couple of weeks, and I’ll be there. Quite a different tune than the one I was singing a few weeks ago, eh?

Anyway, this time I got there early. I wasn’t going to be shut out again. I watched the advanced class twirl around the floor, and wondered if I’d ever glide like that. Mark (not his name, but what I’ll be calling him for the time being) came in and sat next to me. We started chatting, and he couldn’t remember my name. He thought it was Tricia, which is the name of the woman who got me to go in the first place. Oi. Oh well, it’s been two weeks.

So, the class starts, we go into each other’s arms and he asks, “Were you here last week?”

What, he didn’t even notice me last week? Double oi. I said I had been, and he was relieved. See, this week was review, and I think he was worried I wouldn’t know what to do at all. We start to Tango, and things are going well. We break for new instructions and wouldn’t you know it? Another woman snakes her way over to him when the class couples up again.

I end up with Chad, a slightly autistic, but good dancer who sweats. A lot. He has no problem telling me how I’m holding my arm incorrectly and my steps are too small and that I’m not moving smoothly enough. It doesn’t bother me though, because I just want to get better, and he’s not the one I’m trying to impress anyway. Mark and I smile at each other across the room.

Another break, a new combination, and back to couples again. Mark appears in front of me almost immediately, and away we go.

Now, I have to tell you all, what with the extra fruit and veggies I’ve been eating this week? Major gas. Not really a problem; I live alone. But, the whole time I’m at class, spinning around and trying to put my feet in the right place, I’m fighting the need to fart. Oh man, I could just picture it, ending before it was begun, all because I was trying to eat right.

But, I contained it. I’m stronger than I knew.

However, we did learn a new spin. One in which the man just basically stands there, and the woman has to spin around and end up close to the man, with her back to him, his right hand on her waist, her hand on his.

Nerves. I hadn’t had a beer or cocktail this time beforehand, I like this guy, and I’m fighting gas. I kept spinning properly, but ending up too far in front of him. He said I was too far away for him, and to remember “The Tango is the dance of … you know… seduction?” He said it in a funny fake, pepe le pew accent, and I knew right then that I did like him. "You've got to get a bit closer."

And then on my next spin? Slammed into him. Knocked him backwards with my big ass.

“Well, maybe not that close,” is all he said.

Gales of laughter from both of us. I’m sure I was scarlet. Mortified I was. Mortified. He was blushing too, but we both just kept laughing and trying to dance.

Where are the movies about this? Aren’t I, by this point in my life, supposed to be smooth? Calm? Cool?

None of those I was.

But.

It didn’t matter. I asked him if he was going to the next run of classes, he said yes, and then said,

“You know, I have access to a wooden floor. If you’d like to… if you give me your number… I could call you…. If you’d like to practice sometime.”

Squeeee!

But that was on the inside. On the outside? I said sure, gave him the digits, and he walked me to my car.

Oh the small joys of possibility.