(George Bernard Shaw)
For my birthday last November Right Foot bought me dancing lessons – AND agreed to go too. First, five private and then ten group lessons. On Wednesday evening we took the first two of the group classes. There was both less and more pressure: less because we weren’t the only ones being scrutinised by the instructor but more because it’s one thing to stand on the toes of your nearest and dearest and another to stand on a stranger’s. We lumbered through the Marengo, the Salsa, the Tango and the Quickstep.
The real hurdle was the degree of physical contact with unknown men that many Latin and even Ballroom dances involve. I am so accustomed to the dimensions of my usual partner that the others felt all wrong. I am used to dancing with my arms above my head as if I were the victim of a stick-up, with a partner double my weight whom I can clutch like ballast. These other puny weeds were too short, slight and insubstantial. There didn’t seem to be enough man to grab hold of. Their skin was too fair and had a different smell. Wednesday night was warm and there were naked bits of unfamiliar male flesh I hesitated to touch. I wondered why – too fastidious? Too loyal? Too shy? Just out of practice?
In the second class I was the only woman who had a partner with her. I guarded him zealously.
