March 15, 2005

My Nemesis: The Foxtrot


They say that growing up requires one to face his fear head on. Fear thy name is Triple-Time Swing.

I was scarred for life by square dancing at Luxemburg-Casco. Since then my aunt showed me how to polka and learned a box-step with Heidi Heistad for a cinematography class production of Schindler's List. I was convinced I could get away with Polkas, the chicken dance and a lame imitation of John Travolta's Pulp Fiction [1994] twist that was popular in the '90s for the rest of my life. Granted this attitude has had some weaknesses. One month the dorm channel had Saturday Night Fever [1976] on heavy rotation and I found myself attempting the moves as part of my self-deprecating irony phase.

Now I'm going to Arthur Murray and it's going pretty well. I usally feel like a sweaty Frankenstein. And I have trouble remembering what's going on after executing some move, but I'm improving. They say doing this is supposed to help my confidence. I'm not sure that's true. Confidence is basically a reprieve from worry. On my side of the fence a person's worth is brutally superficial. It's how you look or what you have. Those are the things to worry about. Poise, grace and social skills are lagniappe if they figure at all.

So what's been the value of dance lessons? I guess it's probably like meditation or acting or improv exercises in that it give me a chance to forget myself and all of the little factoids in my head, a hard thing to do especially for someone with a blog. So it's not really a reprieve from worry. Basically you substitute the unsolvable with solvables, like gently pushing a woman you just met out of the way so you don't step on her feet.

Posted by Spicolli' at March 15, 2005 10:27 AM