Self-Aggrandizement: step aside, mr. astaire

A good friend of mine here in the city grew up in a very orthodox Jewish community, which disallowed mixed dancing (i.e. women dancing with men); as a result, she never picked up even the most rudimentary ballroom dance skills - a distressing inability, considering how frequently her job as an assistant curator at the Met requires her presence at gala openings, fundraiser balls, and other society events. Certainly, Manhattan is full of fine ballroom dance academies ready to remedy such a situation; yet most require students to sign up for group classes in partnered pairs, to cover for the fact that, while women appear to be lining up for admission, the number of straight guys in the city who might sign up for such classes on their own accord could be counted on one hand.

To make a long story short, then, when she stepped onto the floor of Dance New York yesterday evening, it was with me, sucker friend number one, in tow. At least, I consoled myself, I'd previously picked up a small amount of ballroom experience, through a short class while at Yale, an ex-girlfriend who was heavily into the late nineties' swing revival, and a mother (serious enough about waltzing to head intermittently to Vienna with my father to dance at the Royal and Opera Balls) who would occasionally drag my seven-year old self down the hall to strains of Strauss. Still, by the start of last night's class, I could barely remember the basic steps of the various dances, much less perform any well enough to use side by side with royalty (or even anyone with two opposing feet).

By the end of the evening, however, two partners I danced with asked if I was an instructor, and one of the instructors asked if I'd ever considered competing. On the one hand, I was thrilled and flattered - a natural talent discovered! On the other, I was completely appalled. Ballroom dance? So far as I was concerned, it might as well have been natural talent for interior design or hair styling. Why couldn't I suddenly discover a knack for 100 mile per hour fastballs, I wondered, or a surprising ability (considering my limited height and exceeding whiteness) to dunk with Jordan-esque panache?

Sometimes, life is so tragically unfair.

step aside, mr. astaire Filed Thursday, August 21 2003.

step aside, mr. astaire
Filed Thursday, August 21 2003.