Dancing lessons

As I looked back over this blog, I was struck by a few things--my sense of humor, but also my bitterness, my stasis, and the fact that I've been bitching about my job for more than seven years now. I have a different job as of 2013 but it's the same. I'm still working as a programmer, which is terribly non-native and painful to me, and somehow I have failed to pull myself out.

I wonder how this happened, and yet I think I know.

Once, back when I was in college and in my hometown visiting for a few days, two girlfriends and I decided we wanted to go dancing. It was a Wednesday night, not exactly prime bar scene time. One of my friends preferred country music (I did not), but it was well past her turn to decide where we went, so we ended up at a big empty western bar with a dance floor, and a disco ball, and strobe lights bouncing off of the gleaming wood floors. It was a decent place by all accounts. Not my kind of place, but clean and non-threatening.

They put on pop songs between the top 40 country. We drank a few drinks and danced a few dances. A handful of people came and went, mostly just sitting at the bar, watching for a while and making their exits. Two cowboys wandered in--the only western get-ups we saw that night. One was young, the other older with gray peaking out from under his cowboy hat and salting his moustache. We noticed them; they were dressed to be noticed after all. But we ignored them. We were dancing and drinking and trying to make a good time amongst ourselves.

After several minutes watching us dance, they wandered over and asked us out onto the floor. Now note again--two of them; three of us. And one of them way too old. We were hesitant to say the least.

I don't remember exactly how it happened, but smiles were smiled, negotiations were made, and my friends said yes. I made my excuses about not knowing how to dance country and stayed behind. Those cowboys danced my friend in graceful waltzing circles around the floor. After the song was over, they accompanied them back to the table and the younger one took my hand and led me out despite my protests. If you've ever danced with someone who knows how to lead, you'll know what happened next. I was floating out there--moving in wide, graceful circles despite my missteps and hesitations.

The older gentleman had traded partners and he and my friend danced around us, the both of us sweeping across the dance floor and around each other. At the end of the song, they younger man led me back to the table and tipped his hat, and the gentlemen, who were father and son as it turned out, went back to the bar and gave us back to our girls' night.

The three of us had another round of beers, danced a few more dances on our own, and the gentlemen approached again. This time, they found more willing, less guarded partners.

We danced like that off and on for the rest of the evening, the two men changing partners, ensuring that we all got to dance, leaving us for several minutes, and returning to sweep us across the floor again.

At one point, dancing with the father, I broke the rhythm of the dance after a misstep. In truth, it was the third or fourth time in a row I'd done so. Over the loud music, he leaned down and spoke in my ear: "I see how you dance out there when you're listening to your music, all free. Here you tense up every time you take a little wrong step. You got to relax. You can't live your life like that."

I know, I said. I know. But my tensing didn't subside. Sometimes a perfect stranger takes you for just a few spins on the dance floor and nails the essential problem you will fight with all your life. It's just that obvious.

The gentlemen left after a couple of hours, tipping their hats, saying their thank yous and making their exits. They didn't buy us drinks; they didn't make any passes. They just took us out dancing. 

So, 2014, let's see if this is the year to learn how to relax and enjoy the dance, missteps and all.