Writer’s Workshop. Dancer for Money.

Yeah, not in this lifetime.

Not like I didn’t try to hone my skill though.

I gave becoming a dancer the old college try.

Literally.

Back in college I had a roommate who was a dancer.

She was amazing on her feet and I was envious of her ability to work the kitchen floor of our apartment with her tap shoes.

Accept for when she did it in the middle of the night in preparation for a class final.  Or a performance.  Or just for fun.  Because she clearly hated me a little and wanted to ruin my much needed beauty sleep.

Then I wasn’t even remotely envious.  I wanted to sweep her legs.  Both of them.  And break the taps right offa those ever loving tap shoes.

I never did that though.  She was bigger than me a great and talented friend.

She convinced me one semester to sign up for a Flamenco dancing class with her.

It’ll be fun, she said.

You’ll love it, she promised.

It’s an excellent way to work off that freshman 15 you’ve been hanging onto for 3 years get some exercise, she encouraged.

So, having a bit of free time in my otherwise strenuous schedule, I decided to enroll in the stupid little Flamenco dance class with her.

To prove that I am awesome one the dance floor.

And to just have one class that wasn’t intense and serious.

I needed a break from academic intensity and seriousness.

Only, that’s not what I got.

I mean, it wasn’t academically challenging (it was pass/fail, meaning if you came and tried, no matter how horrible you were, you were going to pass), but it was still intense.

And, because it was so freakin’ hard, I had my serious face on from start to finish.

Intensity and seriousness are not my idea of a fun time dancing.

I swear, Flamenco dancing is nothing like booty dancing in the club.  Because booty dancing at the club, which I excell at, is not even remotely intense or serious (unless you’re that one chick who takes droppin’ it like it’s hot to that probably-soft-porn level; which I’m not).

In Flamenco dancing, you have to do something specific with your hands.   And then your feet have to stomp and turn and stomp again, just so.

And then there’s your hips.

Shakira was right!  They don’t lie!

And, if you mess them up while Flamenco dancing (or hideously attempting to) they will sell you out so fast your head will spin.

Which is what mine was doing every single moment I spent in that silly little class.

If you asked the instructor, or my roommate, or any of my classmates, they would tell you that I spent  most of my time sweating like a fiend, despite being frozen in place in the back of the classroom.

They thought it was freaky that someone barely moving could sweat so very much.

But, here’s what they didn’t know: I was moving.

So fast they couldn’t even see me!  That’s how I was working up such a sweat.

Hyper speed, baby.  Hy.  Per.  Speed.

Faster than the eye can see.

At least that’s what my brain was telling me.  As it completely paralyzed my body.

I went to 2 class sessions.

The second one being worse than the first.  Because they wanted us to add another  count to the 16 we learned on day one.

Wasn’t happening for me, since I’d really only filed away the first 4 counts on day one anyway.

I dropped that class like a bad habit before class three was even a consideration and I’ve never set foot in a dance class since.

I’ve determined that I’m more of a freestylist.  Or a, um, Just Dance-ist depending on whether the venue is a local night club or my living room carpet.

Maybe I was over thinking it?  Maybe I just like to raise the roof?

Either way, I’ve decided, some things just can’t be taught.

Tagged as: college stories, flamenco dancing, learn to dance, taking dance classes as an adult