Going It Alone: The Ungainly

While the Groupon emails I receive each day usually feature waxing services or restaurants I've no desire to try, I found a surprisingly appealing offer in my inbox over the summer. The deal was $20 for $40 worth of swing dance lessons, and it arrived about a month before Andy and I were due to move into our own separate places. I figured these classes would be a good way to get out of my solitary apartment, get some exercise and meet new people. I'd used salsa dancing as a means to the same ends in Dublin, and I had quite enjoyed myself. I intrepidly clicked the "Buy!" button, then proceeded to wait four months before redeeming the offer the week it expired. Despite delaying my first class as long as possible, however, I've gone to a lesson every week since.


Learning the Lindy Hop has been fun and challenging, but forming any sort of relationship with the people in my class has been harder than I anticipated. The class is set up so that you rotate partners frequently. You only dance with each person for a maximum of five minutes, and there's barely time to reiterate what's written on your name tag before the instructor counts you in. It's also tough to multitask at our current coordination level, so the time you spend with each partner is devoted to silent and intensive concentration on your feet. After trying a move a few times, you high five, change partners and start all over again. I suppose it's a little like speed dating, except you engage in awkward dancing instead of awkward conversation. And most of the men arrive with their girlfriends.


Given the quiet whirlwind of my social interactions in class, I was pleased to see one of my dance partners when I looked up from my empty mocha at a coffee shop. I went to say hello, glad for the chance to talk without the "tri-ple step, tri-ple step, rock step" rhythm pulsing beneath my thoughts the entire time. We chatted about class briefly, then talked about his current graduate studies and my potential ones. It wasn't a long conversation, but it was several times more extensive than all of our previous verbal exchanges combined. I left feeling proud of myself, both for enrolling in the class and approaching this person outside of it. I had stumbled upon a potential new friendship, and I was eager to cultivate it further during the following week's lesson.


The next time he came to class, I watched as he progressed from one partner to the next, up and down the lines of followers that stretched the length of the dance floor. Finally I was next in the rotation. I greeted him by name without looking at the adhesive-backed reminder on his chest, and I asked him about something he'd mentioned at the coffee shop. Then we started dancing. My chatting to him had caused him to miss the instructions about which steps we should be practicing, and I felt pressure to be a really good dancer. We both panicked. He worriedly explained that he didn't know what we were supposed to be doing, and I found myself completely unable to follow his unusually anxious lead. I not only stepped on his feet, but I somehow managed to bash both of his knees with my own.

I've stepped on partners' feet before. It's bound to happen when you pair two inexperienced dancers. It's slightly embarrassing, but the feeling fades quickly as you focus on not doing it again. Crippling someone with a double-knee smash, however, is ungainly beyond belief. I was immensely relieved when the instructor's cry of "Rotate!" resounded through the room. The hot humiliation settled into disappointment midway through my casualty-free stint with the next partner. Of all my classmates, why did I have to succumb to extreme clumsiness while paired with the one person I'd encountered outside the dance studio?


I think I managed to redeem myself later that evening. The class had shrunk considerably since the first lesson in the session, and we actually completed the entire partner rotation. I saw that my bruised friend was coming close to having to dance with me again, and I decided to make the most of the opportunity. When he (perhaps reluctantly) took my hand, I smiled as winningly as possible and said, "I promise I won't step on you this time." I thought it best not to bring up the knee incident, even jokingly. He laughed graciously, and I was grateful to put most of the awkwardness behind us. I didn't step on his feet again, nor did any of our joints collide. I suppose I might consider that a small triumph.


But he hasn't been back to class since.

Up next: Going It Alone: The Promising