Living La Vida Loca

By Allison Kaplan

My mother tells the story of a childhood friend who was asked as a teenager what one most important quality she would look for in a husband. After careful consideration, the friend earnestly replied, "He'd have to be a good dancer."

Perhaps that answer wasn't so silly.

I'm marrying a non-dancer. I wish I could say this is one of those very trivial character flaws that is actually a little charming, but it's not. I wish I could say rhythm is something women seek in dates, not in husbands, but I can't.

Because, it's charming to be spun around the dance floor by an otherwise awkward man. Even if his footwork gets twisted during a boogie and his hip thrusts miss the beat, having the confidence to get out there is alluring. We all want to live la vida loca, at least a little.

The loosening up part is where Rustin freezes. He refuses to move his hips. He is petrified of looking foolish. He'd rather suffer the frustration of watching me dance with someone else.

But that's no compromise. I want to dance with my fiancé. More to the point, I want to dance with my husband at our wedding.

So I signed us up for a dance class. Not the swing lessons you see advertised at clubs on weeknights - I thought that might be too...fun. A friend who tried swing dancing told me everyone switches partners, which I knew would be traumatizing for Rustin. We went the controlled, pre-wedding ballroom dance class route. I did find it reassuring that we are not the only engaged couple for whom dancing has become a pivotal issue.

Give me a crowded dance floor, a thumping bass, and I can immerse myself in the beat. The only beat in ballroom dance class is a know-it-all instructor chanting "slow, slow, quick, quick, slow."

I faltered on the first "slow."

For some reason, the directions weren't making it from the instructor's microphone to my feet. Was it forward first? Right or left? The slow, slow, quick immediately followed by a slow-quick threw me off. And where do I put my left arm? I couldn't focus. Other couples were trotting their way around the room while I trounced on Rustin's Dr. Martens like a toy soldier. Meanwhile, Rustin followed along - counting, tapping, moving his feet just as the instructor said. Rustin was in the high school marching band. I should have seen this coming. Forget the dance steps. I just wanted to keep our place in the circle of rotating couples, and my movements had us careening in a diagonal.

I am the worst dancer ever. Not everyone needed to know. So with each move, I added an electric slide, pulling Rustin toward the group.

Rustin yanked back. Tug o'war on the dance floor.

The instructor caught us. Our form was all wrong. Okay, mostly mine. My left hand needed to be gripping his upper arm. My right hand was supposed to be inside Rustin's hand. Girls never do the holding.

In a nutshell, I was supposed to follow. Who could have guessed Rustin's defining moment would strike on the dance floor?

We managed about three and a half fox trot steps on Rustin's count. Then came time for a turn. When Rustin twirled me away, I didn't spring back like the other girls.

"Spaghetti arms!" The instructor shouted over his microphone for all to hear. He said my arms should be elastic so when Rustin leads me into a back step, I bounce forward.

Well which is it? I finally take the passive role and I'm reprimanded for being toolimp.

Forty minutes left on the clock.

My arms ached from flexing for elasticity. My hips hurt - it seemed our swing step had us twisting several degrees too far. And my head felt heavy once the instructor told me it weighs 15 pounds. His rationale: when the head hangs down towards one's feet, it tends to throw off the balance.

"Your feet will move whether you stare at them or not," the instructor informed me. That's what he thinks. I took a nervous glance around the room. Not only were the other couples moving together, they added gyrations, a bounce, a flair!

Focus. Focus. Follow. Follow. There! We were making a box, together. We didn't dare risk a turn. We didn't dare stop.

By the end of the hour, we were supposed to have the capacity to move backwards and forwards, side to side, and turn the corners in 7-10 graceful maneuvers. I had achieved one endless box step with my partner, and the movements felt wide and clunky, like a top-heavy flamingo stepping around a puddle.

I refuse to contort myself like that in front of other people.

Rustin said not to worry. He's willing to work with me.

Send comments to Allison at Singlstyle@aol.com