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PAGE TWO [back to first page]
My dancing school believed in the revolving classroom — where they force you against your better judgment to switch partners every couple of minutes. This filled me with embarrassment and horror as I found myself assaulting a new pair of feet with each partner. To make the process less threatening, we were instructed to introduce ourselves. "Hi, I'm Sunny" became my mundane mantra until I was startled with the response "Yeah, I know." It turned out I went to high school with one of the pony-tailed twenty-somethings! My universe shrank and suddenly I became even more self-conscious. After a while my escort and I decided it just wasn't fair to inflict our pain onto others and we opted to make only ourselves miserable. We were branded the anti-social ones by the rest of the class, but it was for their own good.
The class was a rich tapestry of urban folk, with quite a few youngsters in our classes due to the school's location in a hipster neighborhood with many drinking establishments and eateries. But location aside, ballroom dancing is now attractive to some of us youngins because its mystique is seductive, provocative, and alluring. Retro sports are all the rage in my circles and I gained a sense of sophistication and eccentricity by participating in a ballroom dance class. Bowling, badminton, and croquet all carry coolness points and, now, so does ballroom.
When I was growing up, physical education was a class where we learned to shoot a basketball and spike a volleyball. But in my parents' PE classes, ballroom dancing was a requirement. Dancing was not just a pastime, it was critical for social survival. So a couple of the more avid students were a pair of over-60, upscale, Coco Chanel-wearing women who not only knew each dance fluently, but would also take the lead. Being a tough chiquita, I found it hard to surrender myself to a stranger.
When my escort and I danced together, we both tried to lead. Havoc, yes — but let's hear it for equal rights! When we were still participating in the partner-swapping program, I found it hard not to immediately size up my new dance partners: "This one's nervous, that one's lonely, this one's a serial killer looking for his next victim, that one wants to dance with his wife who's being waltzed by the swingin' single..." This led me to the discovery that quite a few of the students were there not just to learn the art of the dance, but also to verse themselves in the language of love. There is an immediate sense of intimacy that is defined in dance. Once you've had someone in your arms it makes it much easier to strike up that first conversation. Ballroom classes are an ideal and safe place to meet a potential mate, much better than in the belly of a bar.
Keeping track of each move was only minutely possible by biting my lower lip and mumbling "one-two-three, one-two-three." When I caught a glimpse of myself in the wall of mirrors — a torture device for sure — I looked like a muttering crazy woman adorned with two left feet. Doing the steps (not to mention trying to coordinate with a partner) was a very challenging endeavor, proving to myself the difficulty aspect of this sport. But was it exercise and an aerobic workout? The answer: Hell yes! I was surprised by the onslaught of perspiration from an activity that appeared so effortless.
My partner would have to stop every now and then to catch his breath, and he went to college on a basketball scholarship, mind you. By the end of each class I would be dizzy — not only from the constant twirling and spinning, but from the exhaustion of an hour and a half of constant movement. People will invariably snicker at the sight of one of those dance competitions or when it finally appears in the Olympics, but I know the true test of this event. Ballroom dancing is a real sport. Next step, formal Nike pumps.
Sunny Andersen is the publisher and editor of Girlyhead Magazine out of San Francisco.
In her spare time, she steps on feet and produces movies and audio for mass media.
© 1998 Tripod, All Rights Reserved.
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