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What am I at my age?
Dancing at the Stardust Ballroom | |
| By Leonard J. Hansen | |
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There are social graces we are all expected to develop as we grow from children to adults. One of them is dancing. Not tap dancing or ballet, but ballroom dancing. The waltz, fox trot and even swing dancing have been the rage through the years and are still included as part of important events like wedding receptions, going away and welcome home parties, lodge socials and to after-dinner combos. Through the years our dance styles have gone from up close, as in the fox trot, to being apart as in most of the jitterbug. Then back again in the resurgence of closeness, apart for most rock and roll dancing, and back again with the Lambada. This particular dance craze is so close that you're almost behind each other. People of all ages are dancing. Aboard a cruise ship recently I saw men and women of many summers who were jigging and jiving, swirling to a waltz, or jumping along in the near endless human train of the Bunny Hop. I watch and applaud them from the sidelines. My problem is that I take my dancing too seriously. When the band strikes up the beat and people start moving to the floor I do, too. The problem is that when dancing I count out loud. One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four. Or, one, two, three; one, two, three - as I recognize the waltz. I didn't mean for this to happen. It all started when I tried to learn the schottische years ago. It was almost impossible until I started to count out loud: One, two, three, hop. One, two, three, hop. One, hop. Two, hop. One, two, three, hop. It worked! The Six Fat Dutchmen could play their music all day, and I could step and hop, even at the right time. It worked! But, how do you carry on a conversation on the dance floor when you must count out loud in order to move your feet to the music? That's the challenge. I tried counting the sequence out loud eight times, and then in grand, Valentino style I would press the young lady backward into a long dip. "Nice evening," I could say into the dip; and "You are lovely," on the way back up. Eight more repetitions of the numbers, then "Nice evening, isn't it?" I would say while going into the dip," and "Do you come here often?" on the way back up. This worked until I met Mary Lou Drigg, who couldn't stand being held in a dip. She thought it was compromising and gave the impression to others that she was easy, vulnerable or couldn't stand on her own. She never did tell me which was her true feeling, but she fought back against my counting out loud by singing in my ear. For awhile I kept a pair of crutches in the rumble seat of my roadster, and I'd bring them with me wherever there was to be dancing. But that became clumsy and cumbersome, particularly when I did meet an interesting young lady who didn't care about dancing and wanted to do other things. The crutches kept getting in the way. From a pawn shop I bought some World War II medals and affixed them to my suit jacket. Perhaps people would take my feigned limp as the result of heroic deeds, and they'd talk to me with a new respect rather than as a klutz who couldn't dance without counting out loud. One night, though, a Marine drill sergeant laughed with a roar when he looked closely at the military ribbons, identifying the awards for good conduct, best bunk making, and for having the cleanest weapon while under fire. It is difficult to run a personals ad in the newspaper today. Because how can I describe that I can count out loud better than I can dance? When will I be able to do my patented Valentino dip again, so I can try out my new lines: "I think the gray in your hair is attractive," on the way down; and on the way up: "How are you at applying Ben Gay?" Or, the real solution may be to just avoid dancing situations by taking up new interests, new directions, new discoveries. I'll ask, "Do you think the mountain is perfect for skiing today?" on the ride up in the chairlift, only to ride down again, "Perhaps tomorrow. Isn't it time for a toddy by the fire?" I will yet find a way. |
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