“Let’s hope so.”
Ben nods nervously and glances at the teachers who are setting up some music. He takes a deep breath and starts counting out loud.
A little over an hour later,I find myself sitting with Jody and Helen in the coffee shop at the corner, killing time while my daughter finishes her Taekwondo lesson. Jody is giving sharp summaries of the different styles of follower that she’s had to deal with in her various Lindy Hop, East Coast, and now West Coast Swing classes.
“You two are fine,” she says, waving her hand vaguely. “You two are acceptable. But there are people I’ve danced with who have the weakest possible grips. It’s like their wrists are made of Jello.”
“Oh no. That’s what Ollie said about mine,” I say.
“No. You’ve improved a lot. There are followers where I take a step toward them and their entire frame sort of melts away, like I’m stepping into the mirror dimension. And it’s like, you do need to push back against me a little or I will end up pressed against your entire body.”
“Well,” Helen says, “some of the leaders have a death grip. There’s this one guy…”
“I know the one,” I agree.
“It’s like he’s one of those 1950s tin robots with the arms coming out from his elbows.” Helen imitates a robot. “He seemsto think his job is to push me around like a shopping cart. I mean, I like a decisive man, but not like that.”
I laugh. “The ones who bother me are the ones who fling you away like they’re tossing a frisbee. And then they snap you back again, and your wrist hurts.”
Helen holds up a wrist. “I just say, ‘Be careful, dear, I’m old and fragile.’ That usually tones them down. I got pushed around enough by my husband.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.
“Oh, he wasn’t abusive exactly,” Helen replies, looking thoughtful. “Just rigid. Very rigid. He was a university professor. Eighteen years older than me. We met when he was teaching my intro philosophy class in college, and I married him the summer before I graduated. And he was one of those people who just… I would say, you know, ‘Maybe we should go to Norway for a trip,’ and he would have fifteen reasons why we shouldn’t go to Norway. He knew everything that was wrong with Norway. Or Florida. I couldn’t possibly want to go to Florida. Do you know how humid it is in Florida? And taking a dance class? Never. We weren’t going to become professional dancers, were we? What was the point? Exercise? You could get much more efficient exercise at the gym, and we had a paid membership. I gave up so many opportunities because they didn’t fit what he thought was logical.”
“And now here you are,” Jody says with more than her usual warmth.
“Here I am, dancing with men half my age who are scared to break me.” Helen sighs and shrugs.
“You,” Jody replies, “have excellent connection and a great frame.” Helen’s face lights up at the compliment.
I shake my head. “I never expected so much of dance would be about holding hands the right way.”
“That’s the whole thing,” agrees Jody. “Well, half of it anyway. As a leader, I feel like I’m sending out secret messages, hoping the followers read them.”
“Put like that, it sounds very sexy,” I say.
“It’s a mating dance,” Jody agrees. “At least in part. I wish there were more lesbians who came to class. But nevertheless, I persist.”
“So are we all going to the Friday night social?” Helen asks.
Our intro class is taught by two dancers, the spunky and experienced teacher named Maria who greeted Ollie the other day, and her assistant and teacher-in-training Hank, who is in his early twenties and bouncily enthusiastic. They both spent the first class heavily advocating for us to attend the school’s two-hour ‘open social dance’ on Friday evening. It is a free event where West Coast Swing dancers have the chance to practice their steps in an informal atmosphere.
I shrug. I’m not sure whether my date with Ollie will be on Friday night. I’m not sure whether my date with Ollie will happen at all, to be honest, because he still hasn’t called me. It’s only been twenty-four hours since my intro lesson with him, I remind myself.
“If I’m free, I’ll try to be there,” I tell Helen. I do want to get more practice with dancing. In the back of my mind, though, I wonder why I am bothering. I’m certainly not going to dazzle Ollie, who has already danced with someone who is basically a national champion.
“I’ll probably be there,” Jody replies, sounding a little weary. “I might as well get the practice in.”
Outside the window, I watch a young woman stride by us wearing a punk rock t-shirt, her hair in an untamed wave, her ears triple-pierced. That was my look for a few years in my mid-twenties. I used to dress like Joan Jett, with an I-dare-you attitude and copious amounts of black eyeliner. I listened tometal bands and went to dubstep raves and snuck into parties where I didn’t bother to learn anyone’s name.
Now I have a crush on a guy who wears tweed vests, and I’m learning a dance with neatly assigned leader/follower roles and carefully counted steps.
“Well, I hope you both come,” Helen replies, “because I have a feeling most people will bring their partners, and no one will ask us singles to dance.”
“That’s the best thing about us three,” Jody replies, glancing between Helen and me. “We’re all alone.”
I meetup with Hannah and her babysitter a few minutes later at the Taekwondo studio and reimburse the babysitter for the white uniform that she hastily had to buy for Hannah before class started.
