Harder, better, faster, stronger

I got to dance an entire song with my zouk teacher last night. Unsurprisingly, he’s fantastic, as you’d hope for a teacher. At this point, I’m competent enough that we can actually dance. I don’t need my partner to stick to prescribed moves, I can actually follow. Don’t get me wrong, it all falls apart on occasion, but with a partner who’s better than me, we can actually keep going through an entire song and I don’t do the stumblefuck “oops I’m sorry wah” (much).

I wish I knew how to communicate the pleasure I get from dancing. Being led through the musicality of the track, slowing down and speeding up with the rhythms and bridges and climbs. Being held close and led properly by someone who knows how to dance, no self consciousness, just the sheer joy of movement. I love the smile on my teacher’s faces when I nail something, when I follow a lead correctly or cambre properly or just improvise a shine. I know the glee is written all over mine. And yes, the “hey, fat girl, what are you doing” demons do come out to play occasionally, but you know what? I really doubt I look as ridiculous as I feel.

And I worry that I sound like I’m concealing a sexual interest, when what I want to say is that I love the closeness, the sensuality, of dancing. Trust me, there ain’t none of my dance partners that tickle my fancy, and by now, I’m pretty sure I’d know. Zouk’s not something you dance if you are at all self conscious about your personal space. It requires a lot of contact; it’s led from the chest, the hips, the legs. While T and S were teaching last night, they were sneaking a hand in between bellies, just to make the point that there was NOT supposed to be clearance there.

I wonder why I feel like I have to apologise for enjoying dance? Silly, really. I mean, I’m 28 years old. I should be past the navel gazing and fear that Other People Might Think I’m Silly.