Push vs. Pull

Two weeks, I went contra dancing. During the second dance, the best and most fun guy to watch asked me to dance. I was thrilled. Since he is the best dancer and I am new, I didn't want to ask him to dance. When he asked me, I felt like the belle of the ball.

The rest of the night was downhill. I asked one guy to dance, and he said "No thanks," which was horrific. I nearly died. Another guy asked me to dance, but then he told me I was swinging all wrong. He tried to teach me, but it didn't work so well. He told me I needed to lean back instead of leaning forward. It worked, but not all the way. An elderly gentleman told me I wasn't surrendering to him. Good god I had no idea what that meant.

[For those of you who don't know what a "swing" is, it is when you dance with a partner, one hand on their shoulder and the other hand holding theirs. Then the two spin together like a top. It is similar to waltzing except you stay in one spot instead of moving across the floor. It looks easy, but I couldn't figure it out.]

After that, no one asked me to dance. I was sitting by the sidelines--the last one left--when someone who came back from the bathroom asked me to dance. Not because they had a choice about who to dance with. I was the only one left.

I felt like I had said or done something wrong, but no one told me what it was, like I stepped in dog shit or made an unwittingly cruel or harsh comment that got me shunned by the hive, the swarm. I felt like it wasn't just one person who was giving me the cold shoulder, but all of them, leaving me behind, excluding me. I was dropped. Canceled.

This was depressing. I love to dance. I want to part of the group. I want to be good at this. I didn't know what to do.

I told Pedro the story. 

"So it was a typical Seattle thing, where no one told you directly told you what you did wrong, but you were passive-aggressively shunned?" he replied.

Yes, basically.

"But you know how to dance," said Pedro. "You grew up dancing. You should be able to handle this."

"I know, right?"

But no.

After the dance that horrible night, I went home and I was really upset. Very upset. Instead of quitting, I went online and ordered a new pair of dance shoes from Capezio. I was going to figure this out.

Last Friday, I went early. Before the dance starts, the group offers lessons to newcomers. What I love about this dancing is they teach you the basic steps, and you follow along. There aren't months and months of lessons. There is no choreography. You just show up and follow the caller. Like chess, it takes minutes to learn. Unlike chess, it does not take a lifetime to master. 

Even still, I wasn't getting it. I've danced en pointe, which requires strength, coordination and technique. You don't just sign up for a pointe class and they hand you a pair of toe shoes and they say have fun. Nope. Pointe is like a black belt for ballet. You are told by your teacher when you are ready, often after years of training. This isn't some magical or exclusive thing. You could get seriously hurt if you aren't ready.

And I suck at folk dancing? WTF?

The other thing I know about dance is that you have to accept feedback and correction. All. Of. The. Time. It is a brutal sport when it comes to criticism. I didn't realize how much "feedback" one has to endure in ballet until I took a class as an adult. 

Point your toe.

Lower you hip.

Lift your chin. 

Shoulders back.

Rotate your hand.

And that is for just one position. Rinse and repeat.

When I was a kid, I didn't know how awful this was. I thought a constant flow of correction and adjustments were normal.

Last week before the dance, I was ready. My new shoes arrived at 4:00 p.m. The dance started at seven. I put on a red and yellow flowing skirt and a white shirt. 

I dug deep, deep, deep back into my ballet training: I ate a big slice of humble pie and asked for help. I opened my mind and was ready for a stream of corrections.

I told the group leader that I needed to learn how to swing, and he pointed me to two people--a man and a woman. The woman was danced both positions--lead and follow--which was exactly what I needed. The men I danced with rarely followed: they couldn't give me directions because they never danced in my position. This woman was going to be my salvation, and she was.

"I've never danced with a partner before," I said. "I am not understanding how to swing." I danced with her, and she immediately caught my fundamental error. When I put my hand on my partner's shoulder, I put it on the from on the arm, and pushed. 

"Your hand goes on the back of your partner's shoulder. Imagine you are hugging a barrel. Now gently pull back while you spin," she said.

Bingo.

A few weeks ago and country two-step, I learned to push. Now I needed to learn to pull.

"Each dance has a different position," she said.

Aha. I should have known.

I hit the floor, humbler and more confident. I danced with one of the elderly gentlemen who had a bad shoulder. He gave me some advice to how to help him manage, and we were off, spinning like a top. It was so much fun we both were laughing. Younger guys also asked me to dance--strong, competent, and confident dancers. It was a blast.

Life is so much more fun when you know what you are doing. It was just fun for me, but everyone else, as well.

Dancing & Beginner

I remember my first ballet class.

I was probably four years old, taking a class at the park district. Six little girls were in the class, all wearing leotards, tights and pigtails. We sat in a tight little circle, crossed legged with the teacher. Instead of doing barre work or pliés, we pretended we were little birds, getting ready for the day. We first brushed our teeth with imaginary toothbrushes, and then we ran in a circles around the nest. At the time, I didn't know that pretending to be a bird as a big part of ballet. (See: Swan Lake)  

It was wonderful and it was fun. It tapped some magical nerve in me that said this is what I love.

I hated swimming. I was terrible at soccer. I liked tennis, especially the very satisfying sound of the ball thunking against the strings of the racquet.

Dancing was different from other sports. At my age, there were no winners and no losers. It wasn't competitive, though later there would be auditions and the like.

So now, in middle age, I am back finding my groove in dancing. I've been Contra dancing several times, and next up in Country Line dancing and Two-Step. 

And I am back at beginner, and it sucks.

I am now in week five at Contra dancing. I've never done partnered dancing, so this is different than anything I've done before. I have to follow, which is much, much harder than it looks. I am used to being responsible for my own dancing, and now I need to let someone else take the lead. All of this means giving up control, letting things flow, taking what is given.

Now in modern times, I could learn to be the lead, and expect my partner to follow, but I don't think that would solve my problem. I am just going to have to be humble and learn.

I remember being on the drill team in high school. My freshman year was rocky on the team, for whatever reason. I was clumsy and clunky, even though I had been dancing since I was four. Maybe I was having a hard time with the new type of dance, the new routines. When I was a sophomore, overnight I became better. I remember the coach watching me during tryouts and asking what happened. They were shocked that I had improved so suddenly and so dramatically. I don't know what happened, what the transition or pivot point was. All if sudden movements made sense.

I think what happened was that I needed to "unlearn" my old dancing steps and learn the new stuff. All of my old assumptions were taking space in my brain, and I needed to make room for new rules.

I hope this new dancing clicks in my brain soon.

Zumba! & Front Row Divas

Two weeks ago, I went to my first Zumba class. My friend Jeanette teaches Zumba, so I asked her which class I should take. She recommended a class with Daren at Community Fitness on Roosevelt. She said he is upbeat yet his classes are relatively low impact, which is exactly what I wanted for my first class after recovering from my ACL tear and surgery last year.

Aerobic classes used to be my main form of exercise before I had kids. After Claire Adele was born, I took an aerobics class three times a week. Once the Boy was born, I had a hard time squeezing in classes so I would ride my bike instead. Once in a while, I'd take a ballet or tap class, but those only lasted for a few weeks.

Since I've torn my ACL, I've wanted to take an aerobics class. I was worried that I wouldn't be agile enough. A few months ago, Jason gave me some agility exercises, and I felt great. I was slow, the exercises loosened up my knee.

The challenge of an exercise class is that there are other people in it. With all of my cardio machine exercises, I could go at my own pace and stop when I wanted to. I could do that in a group class, but that is not the point of a group exercise class. The point of a group exercise class is peer pressure: everyone keeps going even though they are tired and sweaty. Everyone else is doing it! You can do it, too!

My knee was still kind of stiff and I didn't want to be the one person two steps behind for the whole class. Again, peer pressure. I didn't want to be the one person off from the rest of the group. The steps are relatively simple and repeated often. Most people should be able to keep up. If not, go back to the cardio room where you can watch television while you exercise!

But hey ho! I did it! I took Daren's class and it was great. (I took two classes a week apart just to make sure the first one wasn't a fluke.) Zumba is just like old-fashioned aerobics from the 1980's, 1990's, and 2000's, but they changed the music to Latin Dance, added a few hip and shoulder shakes, and gave it a new name.

The women in the class seemed to welcome all types and abilities. There was a wide range of ages, from mid-thirties to a woman who had to be at least seventy. None of the women in the class were worried about my performance. They were either too tired and sweaty to notice, or they were too busy trying to keep up with steps. Or, if they were like me, they were having a Walter Mitty hour of pretending they were in a nightclub in a tropical city dancing the night away, not in the middle of soggy Seattle before lunch. How come we all showed up wearing exercise clothes and not slinky dresses and heels? Why teach the class at noon and not ten at night? Where was the bar? Shouldn't we be tossing back sangria and not Nuun water? Seriously, someone needs to rethink this. Regardless of my new ideas of how to exercise, I checked off another goal for my ACL recovery: dancing. Yay! It took longer than I would have liked, but I made it.

After the first class, Jeannette and I talked with a few other women after the first class and I heard a term I never heard before: front row divas. Those are the women who know all the moves, know how to dance, and show off by staying in the front row. How come I've never heard this term before when I've taken a million aerobics classes before? Front row divas can't be exclusive to Zumba, can they?

I didn't stand in the front row for the first or second classes. I stood in the second row. I had always thought the I liked to stay near the front so I could see the instructor better, right? There was no way I was going to stand in the back row. There was no point in that. Then it occurred to me: I had been a front row diva in my former lives, back at Lakeshore Athletic Club, at the YMCA in St. Louis. I wasn't intentionally a diva but I stood in the front so I wouldn't be distracted by people who were two steps behind, who couldn't keep up with the simple choreography. I wanted a clear shot of myself in the mirror so I could see if I was doing the steps right. Did that make me a diva? Yes, yes it did.

I am not a diva in other areas of my life, at least I don't think so. Yet, my dancing "divaness" prevented me from going to the class earlier, until I knew I had a 98% chance of keeping up. I needed to stand that in the middle of class, hold my own and not hold anyone back. Would it have been better if my ego didn't get in the way, if I didn't care if I was two steps behind or moved like Frankenstein? Probably. But then I wouldn't be a diva.

Staying Home, PNB and Member of the Club, Part 2

Since my injury and the subsequent surgery, I haven't been getting out much. Here are things I've missed recently due to my injury:

• The Washington State Democratic Caucus. Glad I missed this one. Jack stood in line for two hours before he got in the middle school where the caucus was held. My left knee would have been furious. She might have gotten up and left after putting up with that abuse.
• Political Rally with Claire Adele. My daughter wanted to attend a political rally this week with one of the Presidential candidates. I didn't want to go (see "Annoying Knee") and Jack was on call. The rally was on the other side of town on a school night. She could have taken the light rail down there, but I didn't want her trying to take the train back home at 10:00 at night in an unfamiliar neighborhood. The trade off was listening to her mope half the night. She was asleep before the main speaker took the stage. Clare Adele would not have made it inside the venue anyway. I had a friend who got there four hours ahead of time and didn't get in.
• The Cool Jazz Hot Java concert at the Paramount Theatre. Jack and the Boy went. I didn't want to sit still that long.
• Rocket Launches. The Boy is in Rocketry Club, and I've missed all of the launches so far. One of the members of my PT team recommended not hanging out in a muddy field for hours. 

I did make it to my son's band concert this week. Yay! I ran into a bunch of friends. It was good to get out and be social. One friend asked she could come over. Seriously. Asking a borderline shut-in if she'd like company is a no-brainer. Right now, my best friend is my dog, bless his little heart. (No offense to my human friends.) I wonder if I'd get out more if I didn't have a dog. Would I just be so fed up with hanging out alone that I'd get out? Maybe.

Jack and I got out again last night. We went to the Pacific Northwest Ballet. We had been to the dress rehearsal last week. I am not that much of a shut-in, but thank god for ballet otherwise I might not have an excuse to leave the house ever. I wore my brace and crutch as my insurance policy against the crowds. Crowds actually have a dance and rhythm all of their own. You don't notice it until you can't play along with everyone else, and you stand out. My daughter's high school newspaper had an article about this phenomena. They did an experiment where girls walked down the hall and did not change their trajectory. Usually, girls move out of the way of boys passing in the halls. Boys barrel down the halls like they own the place. No one sees the dance until they tried to change it. Wearing a brace and crutch changes the dance. Not being able to move about freely also changes the dance.

Jack and I got there early so we got a glass of wine and sat down. Three women and a guy were sitting next to us, and we could hear their conversation. The three women were friends from a dance class. They looked at me with my brace and crutch. It was hard not to notice. They sort of looked at my like I was some scary thing they wanted to ward away, as if knee injuries were contagious. I heard them talk about their knees aching, arthritis, and not wanting surgery. One of the women said her daughter had surgery, but we never found out what kind. The other women wouldn't let her finish her story. I am sure they didn't want to hear about torn ACLs, bad ankles, or other maladies.

I settled into the show. Before it started, I took off my brace so I could stretch my leg more. I loved "Little mortal jump" by Alejandro Cerrudo. He is a choreographer from Hubbard Street Dance Chicago. My friend Cork used to work at Hubbard Street, and we used to get tickets to their shows. Seeing this reminded me of my old life back in Chicago.

As I was watching last night, I began to take an inventory of steps I could or could not do, based on my current condition, not based on how well I could do them normally.

• Stand on my right leg with my left leg in the air: Sure.
• Walk across the stage: More or less, as long they didn't want me there by any specific time
• Jog: Nope
• Turn: Nope
• Leap: Nope
• Walk in slow motion: Sure.
• Jump off the stage into the orchestra pit: Hell no.

Soon enough, I started watching James Moore and forgot about my inventory. Moore is the best contemporary dancer at PNB. He makes it look so effortless, as if he doesn't have to concentrate or strain as he moves. He is like Baryshnikov where I was too busy watching him and not anyone else on the stage. Other dancers look as if they are trying to remember an upcoming sequence or recall an instruction from the director. Dancing looks as if it just flows out of James, no effort required. You can tell he is working hard, though, because he sweats like a pig, bless his heart. To be clear, James does not resemble a pig in any other way. PNB went to New York in 2013 and The New York Times called Moore "hunky." The official paper of record for the U.S. said James Moore is hot. I cannot argue.

At the intermission, Jack and I headed to the lobby, me without my brace. I was going to brave the crowd with just a crutch. People looked at me and whisper "surgery," "arthritis," and "knee pain," trying to avoid my glance. I was mildly paranoid, thinking I was freaking everyone here out.

When we got to the lobby, I saw I woman with two crutches, a leg brace and a bandage around her knee. She was standing by herself. I went up and said hi.

"You only have one crutch!" she said.

"I tore my ACL," I said.

"Me too!" she said. Another member of the club.

"I am four weeks out of my surgery," I said. I wasn't sure I wanted to tell her. What if she were six weeks out? Would I make her feel bad? There is nothing worse than competitive recovery.

"I had my surgery Tuesday," she said. "I am not supposed to be here."

Wow. She was getting out and about, far more than I was. I was impressed.

"Heal well!" she said. "Heal well!" She tried to give me a fist bump, but I had to hobble close enough to her. She was looking a little bleary and wobbled a bit when I realized she was probably still on the oxycodone. But at least she was out. On second thought, maybe the oxycodone is what helped her get out. Not that I want to go back on the oxy, but maybe I would if it improved my social life.