|
So, I'm in college and don't know anything, but I do know that there will never be another experience like the first one I had with dance. Thinking I need a break from my rigorous study schedule, I decide to embarrass myself by taking a Jazz class. Since I've never taken a dance class before, I didn't realize I had subjected myself to certain conditions. YOU MUST try everything. YOU MUST move. YOU MUST let go. As I head toward class the first day, the theme music from Jaws plays at the back of my mind. "dahduh... dahduh... dahduh... DahDuh |
|
| DahDuhDahDuh...ahhhhhh! | |
|
Okay. |
|
| Class starts in the normal fashion, with the young woman teacher at the front, as all the anxious (and somewhat frightened) students stare at her. She introduces herself and seems very friendly. And then she makes us scream. That's right--scream as loud as we possibly can. Of course, there's total silence. She proceeds to explain that we must loosen up and not be so timid. Insisting that we try again, after her near neurotic demonstration, we manage a few whimpers and some quiet "ahhh's." Settling for this until next time, she moves on. | |
| We start to warm up, and to get us moving the teacher puts a steady beat on the stereo and says, "Be free and dance however you'd like." I started to get that really awkward feeling--You remember? Like the one when you're thirteen, in the school gymnasium at the dance sponsored by the bingo club for citizens over 100 years old. Wallpaper. Everybody is wallpaper (separated by sexes, of course). Anyway, daring myself to stay at the front of the class, being heartlessly abandoned by my friend, who slips comfortably behind me, I attempt to what I call...well...dance. Sure I know how, right? I mean, I've been in clubs before... |
|
|
|
After a few seconds, I can't control my urge to glance around at the others. I suddenly become nearly shocked and appalled at my surroundings. "Freak Out" is what disco-boy next to me considers all-to-cool, and I look for the disco ball and strobe light, but can't seem to find it. Swan-Girl in the back seems to be attempting to leap and fly, and I wonder if her toenails hurt from standing up on them too long. Then, certainly, there were other lost souls like me. I stared at them, and they just stared straight back with the same bulging eyes and confused smirk. There goes that Jaws theme again. |
| As soon as everyone's done danc...um...moving, stretching begins. I try bending my body in ways that are only possible if I were a pretzel. "Bend low," echoes a voice from the oblivion of the studio front. I think this is a bonus for me because I'm only five feet tall anyway. How much lower can I get?! But she means really low, so I immediately shrink to three feet. | |
|
|
|
 |
The technical part of the class consists of an introduction to some funny French terms that I can't even pronounce, let alone perform. I do, however remember one distinctly--the <gasp!> chaine, or chain turn, or in my terms, the way to become infinitely disoriented. After a couple of these chain turns, I feel very dizzy, and learn the significance of "spotting" the hard way. Once I realize I've stopped spinning but nothing else has, I'm facing the back of the studio. The teacher then points out the importance of watching yourself in the mirror during the turn. Now, my boyfriend is a dancer, and he buys mirrors--the big ones where your whole body is in view. I used to wonder, is it time for the Mr. Universe pageant again already? Am I just now seeing the ego-complex he's had for months? Or is he merely enticed to perfect the precision of his movements by monitoring them in the likeness of his own reflection? He assures me it's the latter. |
| There's barely enough time left to warm down before the one hour of class is over. Relief overwhelms me, and I'm starting to recover from the dizziness. Seriously, I'll probably never dance again. More seriously, I'm addicted to it. Try it and you'll see that it's freedom. Pure freedom. | |
 |
