Bad at Dance

On the pleasure of doing things just for the hell of it.

Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash

“Boo Thang” is thumping on the stereo. I’m standing in front of a wall of mirrors, but I can’t look at myself to consider any of my vain little preoccupations. If I don’t focus on what my feet are supposed to be doing, I’ll lose my place. Again.

Shuffle hop step, flll… ap, step; shuffle hop step, flll… ap, step; shuffle hop step, flll… ap, step…

We are learning time steps in my adult tap class, which are several fundamental steps upon which routines are built. I can, after several days of practicing at home, remember the words to the moves. They are in my head; down in my feet, however, the moves are not. Even figuring it out and getting it a few times is no guarantee that I’ll keep getting it. As soon as I miss a count or slip up a step, the rhythm is gone again. My brain gets lost and my feet no longer work. My tap dancing teacher, an adorable, bright-eyed woman a few years younger than me, says I need to build my muscle memory. She says it with a shrug and flip of her hand, as if it might be easy.

I have taken many dance classes, but I have never been particularly good at dance. On stage, I was always watching the girl next to me, dreading the moment when the formation would switch and I’d have to move up front where there was no one to watch. As I got older, if I learned those dances (and that’s a big if because I often didn’t), I had to practice every day to make the moves stick and keep my eyes on the audience. My cheer coach in high school, who took dancing very seriously, always made my friend pair off with me during practice so I could learn the moves without having to watch everyone else. And when I took a semester of African dance in college, I never quite had the beat.

But dancing is so fun! I used to watch with awe all available forms of dance as a kid. Back in the eighties, my family lived outside the range for cable television, so this was limited to six or seven channels. Musicals with dance numbers, the Fly Girls on In Living Color, televised performances of ballet, MTV at my grandma’s house, and even ice skating competitions. The best part about taking dance classes was watching the other girls’ performances. Dancers, when they’re dancing, exist fully in their bodies, connected with the music. How wonderful it must be to have that. A body flying through the air in time with the music and looking so free. They probably don’t even have to think about the moves.

My body doesn’t have an ounce of natural talent for movement. It’s never elegant or on point. And I am perfectly happy if no one is looking at it. None of this deters me. I love dancing so much. I love it in the same way I love singing. I’m terrible at both but I can’t stop myself.

I stand in the back of the room where no one will see me. The only survival strategy beyond when you don’t know the moves is to keep moving. If you’re moving, no one will notice. And if you can stick the finish with a big smile, even better. No one will remember how bad you were off if you do it smiling.

When I told my husband that our daughter’s dance studio offered adult classes in tap and ballet every week, and that I intended to participate in both, his first question was, “Is there going to be a recital?” No. Very funny! The point is to dance, not to be seen doing it. (His second question was whether or not this was a good idea, considering I might hurt myself.) In any case, I didn’t care. But I did consider: what is the point? Why learn time steps at forty-four years old? Why work at something when there’s nothing to work toward?

It’s fun and good exercise and something to get me out of the house. But that could be anything—a yoga class or a few trips around Marshalls. When I’m in a dance class though, and I watch the teacher demonstrate, I want to be able to do it. I want the moves to exist in my body. I want to be able to do the time steps confidently and quickly. I want the muscle memory. For my own pleasure of knowing I can put a few moves to a song if I feel like it. The satisfaction of being able to do it without watching the teacher. Because dancing is fun! Because why not?

I have to practice every day. I will have to double-check with the teacher at the next class to make sure I’m doing it right, and face the tiny shame of her looking at my feet and having to correct me or not.

And so…

Shuffle hop step, flll… ap, step; shuffle hop step, flll… ap, step; shuffle hop step, flll… ap, step…

Thank you, always, for reading!

Melinda