In Honor of What

I bought myself some new dancing shoes, and tonight, I took them out for a spin.

Reentry into the ballroom scene is not so very difficult in most ways. I find my cubby, stash my cycling boots, and slip on my new jazzy black slippers. I look around not-so-obviously at the selection of potential partners while they look not-so-obviously at me.

I remember how this works. New fish in the pond are the first to be caught. Often enough, they are also tossed back when -- oops! -- they forget the steps to the west coast swing. Never tossed mid-song. Well, almost never; I think it only happened to me twice. But at the end of a song, you can feel your partner's disappointment. He wears it like a leaden yoke, and it's painful for him to fully raise his head to look at you politely as a gesture of goodbye. You must pardon my masculine assumption here (the "he"); all of my women dancing partners I've had to invite personally.

Okay, so I am perched on a step, prepared to be caught. Snap! It happens. A swing dance first. My favorite, and not too hard to piece together. Then, something called a "Night Club" follows, which sounds more like a drink than a dance. "I don't really know this one," I say, smiling sweetly.

My partner takes me out, a fine lead, and I pick up the dance more quickly than I thought I would. The first time I get the basic steps without tripping over him, he nods and says, "Okay, now let's try something different."

Oh, right. Just when I get the basic down for the first time? Now we're switching it up? So we try something different. After a couple of turns, I get that, too. He is delighted and jumps into a new move which leaves me criss-crossed on the wrong side of his arms. He looks at me sideways and says, "Oh, don't worry. It's probably the hardest move in this dance."

Excuse me? That's supposed to be reassuring? What makes you think that's such a great idea, I wonder, trying out your most difficult move when I've barely got my feet moving in step with you? Brilliant. I am set for success.

One older gentleman whose name, Helmut, is embroidered on his official ballroom dancing sweatshirt, tells me under no uncertain terms that a woman must follow and the man is totally in charge. Modern women, he says, have a hard time with this. I wonder if he thinks I am intentionally trying to gum up his grace in order to bolster my feminine independence. I look at him cock-eyed. "Is that supposed to be a hint?" I ask. His confidence ebbs, and the lecture ends.

They keep asking me to dance. Each time, I warn them that I haven't danced much in the last decade. Some believe me and take it achingly slow. Others think I'm being humble. If they are a strong lead, I keep up. One fellow just a little older than me learns quickly that my warning especially applies to the tango. He walks me through it counting aloud. We do okay.

Then he starts talking to me. My lips work better than my legs, so they take over, and my legs fall off. Well, not entirely, but it is kind of a drag for both of us. It takes him a full turn around the floor to understand the problem and stop asking me questions. He then has to go back to telling me which foot to move: left, right, left, right.

Okay. Good again. Then he asks me where I dance when I'm not dancing here. Ummm.... really? Aren't you the guy who just taught me my right from my left? "Because there's a dance tomorrow night at the Eagles Club," he tells me. I say I'm going to the concert of a friend of mine instead. He looks disappointed. The dance is over.

One man asks if I do the Silver Waltz, and I tell him that I did once. He tries me, and low and behold! The feet remember. I recall as if it was yesterday practicing this dance while walking my dog down the bark-o-mulch path at Alton Baker park. (Yes, there was trouble with the leash.) I am so surprised to remember the steps that I almost share my celebration. Then I recall how well talking helped my tango, and I keep my mouth shut.

Another man asks me to dance. "Err... what is it?" I ask. "A merengue. You can't mess it up," he tells me. Now there's someone who's been watching, I think. We take the floor, and I do remember how to look sexy squishing grapes with my feet. This man is charmed by my flair. He asks me to dance the next waltz. For some reason, my legs don't go with his anymore, and he is irritated. It's simply a progressive waltz, he says, but I can't seem to remember which leg goes when. I suspect he thinks I'm a great dancer who is disabled just for him, just to ruin his waltz. Perhaps it is so. He gives me a very sour look. I widen my eyes and smile.

A fellow insists on teaching me the West Coast Swing. I appreciate his patience, actually, and his counting aloud. He asks me to teach him the rumba, which I manage to do, just barely. I tell him that I'm rusty because it's my first full night dancing in a decade. "Oh!" he says. "In honor of what?"

In honor of what? How do I answer that? "Transition," I say and look away, hoping he doesn't ask more.

"What kind of transition?" he asks. This is officially not small-talk. This man is fired.

I look at him blankly. One-two-three, one-two-three. Why have I not danced? Transition of my husband into a woman? Transition in and out of two more relationships following? Neither of them rooted, and never a real space to be single, or at least singular, in between...why have I not danced?

It's a transition, I think, in honor of What. Just as he said it. But that's not the pat sort of answer that's allowed on the dance floor.

Nevertheless, it is worth a new set of shoes and an evening of laughter, missteps, and sweet memories lived aloud. In honor of What.