Last night I put on my shoes.
Gold slippers with heels, actually, with delicate straps across the top that fit my feet perfectly. They were to have their debut on last night's sizzling, spicy salsa floor. I've gone salsa dancing for years now. I mostly go alone, and always with "almost right" shoes. Everytime I go out, I say a little prayer before stepping onto the floor. "Help me find someone who will make me fly..." I am rarely disappointed. There was Juan, four years ago. He won first place in a salsa dancing competition in his home town in Mexico. He liked to make our dances into flirtatious stories. We'd start with the mysteriously innocent beginning to the wickedly flashy "Take me!" end. And then there was Travis, my country-boy dancing partner in Missoula, Montana. Yowsers and yeehaw, people...seriously. (Who knew a cowboy could sway like that?) And then there was What's His Name in Korea. He spoke no English and I spoke no Korean, but he moved me in deep ways that made me fall in love within the breaths of one song.
And all that with "almost right" shoes. But with my new golden slippers last night, this time was to be beyond perfection... Who would it be this time? Dark, handsome Fernando, or a Hill-billy Bob? It didn't matter. "Help me find someone who will make me fly..."
A new song began. I smiled and sat down. I couldn't wait.
But I did wait. One hour. Then another. No one asked me to dance.
"Are you going to ask someone to dance?" my friend asked me. No, I'm not. I don't do that. If a man doesn't ask me to dance, I go home dance-less. There are feminists who will roll their eyes at me. Yes, one reason is that I simply delight in old fashioned chivalry. But I promise I'm not being medievally stubborn.
I've danced long enough to know that a dancing man understands he has the 3 to 1 advantage anytime he walks onto a dance floor. At least three women at all times would like to jump into his manly- man arms. Let's just begin with the fact that he's there at all. We can infer by his presence at the Mambo or the Carumba night club on a Friday night that he is already smart enough to know that the secret to getting most women to go gaa gaa over him is that he dances. Travis confessed to me that's why he started dancing at all. He got a clue when he saw men dripping with women begging them to dance. While there's nothing wrong with asking a man to dance, I've watched these "amazing dancer" men's eyes as it happens. Their eyes say, "Ok, I guess I can do you a favor." The woman is thrilled to shed her wallflower roots, and the man gives her an obligatory turn.
On the other hand, when a man reaches out his hand to ask me to dance, he is in charge. It was his choice to ask me, and whether I'm a good or bad partner doesn't matter anymore. It's a partnership where he leads, and I follow. As much as the man had a 3 in 1 advantage before he reached out his hand to me, his unfair advantage has suddenly dissipated into thin air. He has chosen, and I have accepted. Neither is doing the other one a favor. We are now on equal ground.
"I'd like to go soon," my friend said. "Yeah, me too," I replied. "I work early tomorrow so I have to be in bed by midnight."
Two hours, and not one dance. My gold slippers started to whimper. Of course it didn't help that this was a birthday party of a woman who competes professionally. The attending dancers were all of her professional dance friends who have known each other for years.
And then, only minutes before we left, he asked me to dance. I would love to tell you that I met dreamy Jose' who shot piercing passion down my spine. Instead, I was a charity dance. My other friend had gone up to him, pointed to me and said to him, "Will you dance with my friend Emily?" He rolled his "I guess I can do her a favor" eyes and reached out his hand.
"Oh, you really don't have to," I smiled and shook my head slightly. He said nothing, but made an insistent gesture with his hands implying that if we were going to do this, we might as well begin.
So we danced. He started out basic, wondering if I would be able to keep up. By mid dance, we were full force inertia experiments. He twirled me, dipped me, spun me and rocked me. There was one point where I looked in his eyes and saw exactly what I wanted to see. "Hmm, not bad," they said.
It was raining as my friend and I ran across the wet streets to the car. Inside, I reached down to feel my left shoe.
In a far far away castle, Cinderella has just been to the ball. The clock has struck midnight and the spell has broken. Back at the castle, her glass slipper is delicately carressed by the handsome prince, who is determined to find the lovely maiden he danced with that evening.
My prince shot across the room as soon as our song was over. I got to bed two minutes before midnight, realizing that my shoe strap was broken beyond repair.
But I got to be Cinderella for that three minute song. He made me fly. And my shoes died perfectly happy.
Gold slippers with heels, actually, with delicate straps across the top that fit my feet perfectly. They were to have their debut on last night's sizzling, spicy salsa floor. I've gone salsa dancing for years now. I mostly go alone, and always with "almost right" shoes. Everytime I go out, I say a little prayer before stepping onto the floor. "Help me find someone who will make me fly..." I am rarely disappointed. There was Juan, four years ago. He won first place in a salsa dancing competition in his home town in Mexico. He liked to make our dances into flirtatious stories. We'd start with the mysteriously innocent beginning to the wickedly flashy "Take me!" end. And then there was Travis, my country-boy dancing partner in Missoula, Montana. Yowsers and yeehaw, people...seriously. (Who knew a cowboy could sway like that?) And then there was What's His Name in Korea. He spoke no English and I spoke no Korean, but he moved me in deep ways that made me fall in love within the breaths of one song.
And all that with "almost right" shoes. But with my new golden slippers last night, this time was to be beyond perfection... Who would it be this time? Dark, handsome Fernando, or a Hill-billy Bob? It didn't matter. "Help me find someone who will make me fly..."
A new song began. I smiled and sat down. I couldn't wait.
But I did wait. One hour. Then another. No one asked me to dance.
"Are you going to ask someone to dance?" my friend asked me. No, I'm not. I don't do that. If a man doesn't ask me to dance, I go home dance-less. There are feminists who will roll their eyes at me. Yes, one reason is that I simply delight in old fashioned chivalry. But I promise I'm not being medievally stubborn.
I've danced long enough to know that a dancing man understands he has the 3 to 1 advantage anytime he walks onto a dance floor. At least three women at all times would like to jump into his manly- man arms. Let's just begin with the fact that he's there at all. We can infer by his presence at the Mambo or the Carumba night club on a Friday night that he is already smart enough to know that the secret to getting most women to go gaa gaa over him is that he dances. Travis confessed to me that's why he started dancing at all. He got a clue when he saw men dripping with women begging them to dance. While there's nothing wrong with asking a man to dance, I've watched these "amazing dancer" men's eyes as it happens. Their eyes say, "Ok, I guess I can do you a favor." The woman is thrilled to shed her wallflower roots, and the man gives her an obligatory turn.
On the other hand, when a man reaches out his hand to ask me to dance, he is in charge. It was his choice to ask me, and whether I'm a good or bad partner doesn't matter anymore. It's a partnership where he leads, and I follow. As much as the man had a 3 in 1 advantage before he reached out his hand to me, his unfair advantage has suddenly dissipated into thin air. He has chosen, and I have accepted. Neither is doing the other one a favor. We are now on equal ground.
"I'd like to go soon," my friend said. "Yeah, me too," I replied. "I work early tomorrow so I have to be in bed by midnight."
Two hours, and not one dance. My gold slippers started to whimper. Of course it didn't help that this was a birthday party of a woman who competes professionally. The attending dancers were all of her professional dance friends who have known each other for years.
And then, only minutes before we left, he asked me to dance. I would love to tell you that I met dreamy Jose' who shot piercing passion down my spine. Instead, I was a charity dance. My other friend had gone up to him, pointed to me and said to him, "Will you dance with my friend Emily?" He rolled his "I guess I can do her a favor" eyes and reached out his hand.
"Oh, you really don't have to," I smiled and shook my head slightly. He said nothing, but made an insistent gesture with his hands implying that if we were going to do this, we might as well begin.
So we danced. He started out basic, wondering if I would be able to keep up. By mid dance, we were full force inertia experiments. He twirled me, dipped me, spun me and rocked me. There was one point where I looked in his eyes and saw exactly what I wanted to see. "Hmm, not bad," they said.
It was raining as my friend and I ran across the wet streets to the car. Inside, I reached down to feel my left shoe.
In a far far away castle, Cinderella has just been to the ball. The clock has struck midnight and the spell has broken. Back at the castle, her glass slipper is delicately carressed by the handsome prince, who is determined to find the lovely maiden he danced with that evening.
My prince shot across the room as soon as our song was over. I got to bed two minutes before midnight, realizing that my shoe strap was broken beyond repair.
But I got to be Cinderella for that three minute song. He made me fly. And my shoes died perfectly happy.
The End
6 comments:
OH,( oozy sigh)
Oh Em! Your shoe.
That dance.
Two hours!
Another reason I don't like Utah.
What a wonderful story and so well said.
You don't like Utah because I waited two hours? ha ha! That's not Utah's fault. I can't wait to go again when it's not a professional dancer's birthday party night. And after I get another pair of shoes.
It was a treat to be a wallflower with you my dear! I will do it again anytime!
I want to share this story...
wonderful!
What a great story! Sorry about your shoes. It's funny. I, too, did almost all my dancing in cheap Target shoes that were always falling off my feet and causing problems. I finally bought a $100 pair of dancing shoes at NOrdstrom. I think I wore them dancing once, and it was not with the fabled Fernando.
Your story, and a bit of your dancing history have now been shared. Thanks for letting me spotlight you this week!
http://www.danceprimer.com
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