Act 27: Take a Ballroom Dance Lesson (Or Two!) On My Own

The purpose of this act was to get me out of the house and to do something active where I just might meet some new people.   I didn't realize it would challenge my entire notion about myself...

But first, some context: 

When I was six, my mom signed me up for gymnastics.  I remember being so excited to get dressed up in a leotard and go learn to be like Nadia Comaneci.  I was in a class with 5-6 other girls my age, and it didn't take long to realize I was different.  

While the other girls were learning cartwheels, "skin the cat" and other graceful tumbling skills, the teacher made me do log rolls, forward rolls and the very-creatively-named bar hang. It seemed unfair that the other girls got to do all the fun and graceful stunts,  while I was mostly earth bound.  Until I looked around at the girls in my class.  They did not look like me.  At all.  I was at least 4 inches taller than all of them - closer to the teacher's height than my classmates.  And while they all had the coltish, long, spindly legs and lithe torsos so common in little girls, I was shaped like a barrel with meaty arms and legs.  Yes. There was no denying it.  I was the fat kid.

6th Grade was particularly awesome.

All throughout my elementary school years, it was painfully obvious.  Not only was I chunkier than my classmates, but I was tall.  Tall enough to look down on the heads of the other kids.  When the teacher would line us up shortest to tallest - you guessed it - I was always last in line.  And to make matters worse, I wore old lady glasses.  And because I had unruly curly hair, my mom kept it cut short in an old lady hairstyle.  I looked so much like a middle-aged woman, I was often mistaken for a substitute teacher.  It was about as awesome as you think it would be.  Still, at that point, I hadn't entered junior high, so I though I was still pretty OK.

I will spare the details.  Suffice to say within the first week or two of entering 7th grade,  I was nicknamed "Hindenberg" by a particularly vile older boy.  The name didn't stick, but the impression it left on me sure did.  From that day on, I told myself that I was a gigantic clod.

 While all the other girls were this:

Graceful, lithe, lovely.

I was this:

Clumsy, solid, servicable

That narrative would go on to shape my view of my self for most of my adult life.  When the girls around me starting dating, I did it as little as possible.  I would allow myself to show interest in someone only if he liked me first - and trust me, that was slim pickings.  There was one boy in 10th grade who was just lovely.  He was kind and sweet, and even though I was about 4 inches taller than he was, we were headed toward being a couple.  That is, until one of the guys in chorus class pointed out that I looked like his mom standing next to him.  He stopped talking to me after that.

Rather than mope, I instead decided to cultivate an image of sarcastic wit and intellect.  I hung out with guys, but they were only friends.  I became intimidating to scare off those who might have a chance to reject me.  And all the while, I told myself if I were more graceful, more dainty, more ladylike, things would be different.  But I wasn't, so they weren't.

This went on for a very long time.  I  set very strict parameters for any guy I would consider dating. (In hindsight, I was using the completely WRONG criteria, but what the hell did I know?)  As the years went by and relationships started and ended, I realized that maybe I wasn't so hideous after all. Turns out, beauty really IS in your attitude.  And as I got older, I started to appreciate what I did have, rather than dwell on what I didn't.  But I still thought that a man had to be a certain type to be able to "handle" a woman like me.  And I still couldn't get over the idea that I was an clumsy, graceless, clod.

Hence the dance lessons.

My thinking was that if could learn a few good dance moves, maybe I would be more graceful and less awkward.  I read a great blog post entitled 12 Life Lessons I Learned from Dancing, and so it went on  the list.

I showed up for my first lesson with a little trepidation. There were other couples out on the floor - rehearsing for a showcase that was coming up - and they all  looked... amazing!  So polished and graceful. I felt like an elephant in dancing shoes.  This is going to be comical, I thought to myself as I waited for my teacher.  

After a moment, two gentlemen came out to greet me.  One was tall and rakishly handsome.  The other, I realized upon standing, came up to my nose.  I smiled and introduced myself.  The tall man, Yuri, took my hand and asked if I was ready for my lesson, and I nodded, a bit unsure, but determined.  

"Excellent.  This is Dma, and he will be your teacher.  I hope you enjoy your lesson."  He then handed me over and strode off toward his waiting partner.  I blinked.

Dma introduced himself and asked me a few questions about what I wanted to learn.  I answered as best I could, but I was distracted.  I had come to try to learn to be graceful and less awkward, but looking at the reflection Dma and I cast in the mirror, all I could think was - He looks like my son.  Still.  I was here for a reason, and I was going to make the most of it. "I have to warn you, I am notoriously clumsy.  I will try not to hurt you," I laughed, self-consciously.  He laughed too, and told me not to worry.  I listened carefully while Dma explained some of the basics of what he would be teaching me.  He showed me how he would signal me when  it was time to turn or twirl or change directions.  I listened with skepticism, and couldn't imagine how that little man was going to handle this Amazon.    I shouldn't have worried.

It took about two minutes of chatting to learn that Dma, in addition to being a very kind and patient fellow, knew his stuff.  As he counted out the steps, he guided me through how to shift my weight from one foot to the next to move from one step to another.  When I would get too much in my own head worrying about what comes next, he'd distract me with idle chit-chat until my feet were following his.  He showed me which way to go with a gentle squeeze of his hand, or light pressure on my waist.  He had no trouble "handling" me at all.

By the end of our series of lessons, we were moving across the floor - if not effortlessly, at least with relative ease.  I couldn't believe the things he got me to do!  As I glanced at us in the mirror, all I noticed was how well we moved together, and how big the smile on my face was.  

It occurred to me that maybe the clumsy, amazonian narrative that I had been repeating to myself was just a fabrication.  Maybe it's time to start telling myself a new story.