Going It Alone: The Promising

I had a hard time recovering from my knee-bashing swing dance experience. I couldn't work up much enthusiasm about going to class the following week. Luckily I had paid for the whole month's session in advance, and I hate losing money for no reason other than reluctance. I begrudgingly left my apartment and headed to the studio, consoling myself by striking a silent (and admittedly pathetic) thought bargain: I had to go to the lesson, but I could skip the class field trip to Lee's Liquor Lounge right after. I had heard that no-one from class had gone to the Famous Dave's field trip at the end of the previous month's session, and the last thing I wanted was to stand around by myself while more experienced dancers burned up the floor.  


After I checked in for class, I headed into the waiting area and resumed my normal habit of milling about awkwardly until class started and people were compelled to interact with me. After about a minute, I decided I was tired of standing silently amongst the chatting couples and friends. I walked over to a group of people I recognized and gracefully wedged my way into their conversation. None of them seemed to mind, and one of the women started trying to convince me to go on the field trip. I clung stubbornly to my irresolute ideals, and the instructor saved me from having to commit by calling us to come on up for class. 


With the initial conversational ice broken, I started talking to another classmate as we headed up the stairs. This thankfully saved me from the second bout of solitary standing that I usually experience during class. The instructor puts on a song or two before he starts leading the lesson, giving us time to practice what we learned the previous week. I don't have much problem with asking someone to dance, but there weren't enough leaders to go around that session. Most of the men who were enrolled came with girlfriends, so they were usually occupied with built-in pre-lesson partners. Since much of beginning Lindy Hop involves learning how to follow a lead, it's hard to practice on your own. Thus the awkward solo standing. 


But this week was different. I talked to my new friend, who was another rare singleton, until the lesson started. The person I'd hobbled the previous week was not in attendance, and I didn't inflict serious harm on any of my partners. After a last burst of big, showy jazz-standard-concluding brass chords rang from the speaker system, the instructor reminded us about the field trip to Lee's. He and the Beginner Plus students wouldn't be able to join us until their lesson ended in about an hour, but he encouraged our class to go over right away. 


I asked my new friend K if she was going to go. She reflected my initial feelings about the outing with a cagily non-committal, "I don't know, I haven't decided yet. Are you going?" "I think we should go," I rallied. "Then if we don't dance, we can at least not dance together." She agreed, and we encouraged a few more of our classmates to join us. We quickly realized that we'd have to put our new strength-in-numbers strategy to the test if we hoped to find the dance venue. One couple had more than a vague sense about how to get there, so they went to the head of our hastily-formed convoy of black Hondas.  


We arrived at Lee's without incident, but our number did not lend us much strength once we saw the dance floor. It was packed with impressively twirling dancers and ringed by a sizable audience of spectators. K and I quickly retreated to the bar for some additional liquid courage. This proved more difficult than I'd anticipated. The lone craggy, cranky bartender made shallow rounds at the far end of the bar for quite some time, so we decided to go to him. Predictably, he moved to the end of the bar we had just left and started treading water and taking orders there. Finally he drifted back in our direction and poured our drinks. Suitably reinforced with alcoholic bravery, we headed to the fringes of the dance floor. 


My first partner was an octogenarian. He led me onto the floor during a song that didn't lend itself to Lindy Hop. I shuffled around confusedly for a while, prompting him to clarify, "It's like a polka." That was not at all helpful to me. Eventually I caught on to the basic step, and he proceeded to grab both of my arms, lean back and gallop us around with the centrifugal force of a much younger man. I could make out nothing but his gleefully smiling face against the blur of motion we created. Before the song was over, he'd done this move a second time, spun-thrown me across the dance floor twice, and turned me repeatedly. This last move caused me to accidentally trail my fingers across his bald, sweaty head. This incident and my uncertainty about the steps should have fused to form an uncomfortable start to the evening. But rather than being off-putting, the experience made me eager to keep trying.  


As the night progressed, I asked some people to dance and a few people asked me. Most were from my class, but I also approached a couple of new people. While I couldn't pick up on everything my parters wanted me to do, I think I passably faked the parts I didn't understand. At least there was little unintentional impact, and that is good enough for me at this point. When neither of us was dancing, I talked to K or the other people who had joined our solidarity party along the way. I met a lot of my women classmates for the first time, which was strange but understandable since our rotation of dance partners is primarily comprised of men. I consider my first social swing dance outing a success, not only because I didn't kill the octogenarian with my dance moves, but because I conquered my recurring shyness and formed connections with some new people. 


I moved up into a more advanced level of lessons this month. I'm hoping that the smaller class size will help me get to know my classmates even better while I improve at Lindy Hop. If nothing else, I'll probably gather some new blog material. Learning more complicated moves will undoubtedly create more opportunities to accidentally body slam my partner.