A friend once told me her superpower was dancing in heels. Mine would be dancing in Spanx. In spite of a constrictive undergarment, I’m fairly nimble on the dance floor, a feat I discovered while taking dance lessons.
It began with my husband’s Christmas present to me, a month of lessons with a trained instructor, meaning someone full of more grace and patience than the Dalai Lama. When we arrived for our first lesson, I was like a newly announced candidate for the American presidency, full of optimism and well-pressed attire. An hour later, I was a wrinkled figment of myself, limping to the car while recounting triple and rock steps.
Yet, hope springs eternal, so hubby and I returned for a second lesson. And a third. Then a fourth. We’re regulars now, high-fiving our fellow students as we enter the dance studio, mildly shocked we keep showing up. We’re limping less by the end of each lesson, instead skipping to the parking lot shouting energized goodbyes to classmates.
A few surprises as a result. First, I underestimated the power of togetherness. Sure, dancing is a great bonding time with my husband, but it has also given me a chance to grow new friendships with fellow dancers. None of us are professional twinkle toes and this strengthens our resolve even more. We celebrate each other’s dance steps just as quickly as we laugh off a failed one. Or two. Or three. When we switch partners, we immediately apologize for any lapse of recall on the routine sequence. Absolution granted.
I’m also pleasantly surprised I’ve learned two different dances in a short time period. This, coming from the woman who once kept re-entering her home address incorrectly into an online application until permanently blocked. My mental synapses may not correctly fire, but muscle memory glides muy fantastico to the Salsa.
And I’m humbled by the fact my marriage has remained intact. I am sure there are moments on the dance floor that my husband is thinking, “Why didn’t I just buy her a bookstore gift card?” We do our best to resist the familiar tug of marital behavior, but old habits die hard. I dance with the intensity of a sledgehammer. He moves more quietly with a steady pace as if to say, “Surely, the old gal will tire soon.” But, he doesn’t give up and neither do I. Together, we interpret the choreography of a partnership that has outlasted the hokey pokey and, blessedly, the Cupid Shuffle.
Not every lesson is easy. Sometimes, it’s tempting to stay home. After a long day of work and life, I consider my options of slouching on the couch watching “Dancing with the Stars.” Instead, I rally, finding my place beneath the disco ball.
It’s a stretch to consider dancing in public outside the comfort of the studio, but I’m willing to give it a try. Whether with my dance classmates or husband practicing the East Coast Swing, I’m happy to move to the music while it’s still playing.
