My work has dance classes twice a week. After hours, we get together , six or so women with an instructor and dance for an hour and a half. Salsa, bachata, cha-cha-cha. We warm up doing aerobics moves that remind me of my mom’s classes at the Y, where I tend to fall off the plastic step thinger right in the middle of choreographed dance moves. Vine step to the right, now lift and back. The windows fog from all the sweating and moving in a little space.
It makes me think of 80s clothes and Madonna headsets. We have complicated feet AND arm movements and lots of me jumping, taking wide steps, looking like a giraffe. I am (unintentionally?) the class clown. I am excited to learn, momentarily discouraged, eager to show the instructor that I am slightly less left-footed as the rest of Gringolandia. So far I am not having much luck, though I persist in the effort.
This week only three of us could be there, so I suggested we learn something complicated to make the other classmates regret not prioritizing our dance class. Our ever-obliging instructor taught us some fancy cha-cha-cha moves. Here is how we looked after an hour: