Dance is the language of the human spirit, and it is how I express myself. I enjoy dancing so much that I am taking lessons in nearly every style. Here is how it is going.
My foxtrot is fair. My basic forward and backward steps feel fine, but when I try to turn I get nervous and stand still like a statue. It’s a work in progress.
My tango is so-so. Although my frame is strong and steady, when I attempt to dip my partner I end up hurling her over my shoulder like a judo throw. I should fix this.
My ballet has some technical issues. My arabesque is shaky, and my pirouette makes a metallic screeching noise. When I plié, instead of gently bending my knees, I leap like a startled cat and knock myself out when my head hits the ceiling.
My Irish jig dancing looks and feels Italian. It’s an insult to both countries, and I’m deeply ashamed of it.
My salsa dancing is powerful. But not in a good way. I once turned my partner so hard that she flew across the dance studio and busted through the wall, Kool-Aid man style. I looked inside the wall before re-spackling it, but my partner is still missing.
My Vienesse waltz is profoundly confusing. My promenade looks like an esplanade and my fleckerl looks like the belly flop of a depressed walrus. My instructor privately requested that I not return to her class because I’m scaring the other students, but I bought a ten-class punch card so I’m not going anywhere.
My reggaeton is debilitating. I can body wave and shoulder shimmy with the best of them, but my pop and lock hits so hard that once I lock, I need to be placed in a tub of warm water for twenty-four hours before I can unlock. Dance is a time commitment!
My sensual bachata is painful. Every time I bachata step, I elbow myself in the face. I tried to do a sensual body roll and broke my spine. Until further notice, please do not ask me to sensual bachata with you.
My Texas two-step is mathematically irrational. Instead of two steps, my feet perform pi number of steps. It’s hard to explain what this looks like, but it’s ugly.
My West Coast swing is slightly less stable than the San Andreas Fault. When I try a syncopation, I start wildly swerving around the dance floor, knocking over the other dancers like bowling pins. Then the music stops. Honestly, this one stumps me.
My East Coast swing is nonexistent. My instructor always cancels class, but then I learn that class happened anyway, in a secret location, and everyone was there including my missing salsa partner. I guess she finally escaped from the wall.
My paso doble is paso not okay. My marching steps are so wobbly and frantic that when I paso dobled in Pamplona, the bulls freaked out and ran into the Mediterranean Sea. Then my tourist visa was revoked.
My flamenco is apocalyptic. When the guitar starts, I see a shimmering specter of The Grim Reaper himself, holding his blood-bedewed scythe. He tells me that if I keep dancing, it will be the demise of me and every dance partner I will ever meet. I look around to see if anyone else sees him, but the other dancers are all having a grand old time.
My death dance is liberating. Now that my skeleton is dancing in hell, I don’t have to worry about injuries, “canceled classes,” or any of that stuff. All of the most enthusiastic skeleton dancers are down here, going nuts with the cha cha, the mambo, and the merengue. The imps and goblins throw fire at us and shriek, “Stop dancing! You’re driving us crazy.” Well, you can damn me for eternity, but I love dancing way too much to ever stop.
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Alex Baia contributes to The New Yorker, McSweeney’s, and other publications.
