December - Zouk: Feel the Loathe

It’s December, I’ve come to the end of my crash-danceathon and tonight’s swan-song lesson is in Brazilian Zouk. Nope, I haven’t heard of it either, but I like a surprise - if it is a nice one. Unfortunately for me on this occasion it isn’t.

I get to the dance studio with ten minutes to spare and have a quick game of hunt the classroom. I stumble upon it next door to the caretaker’s office that I have already accidentally entered to find an old bearded man changing his work trousers.

WHOOPS

I find the correct / clothed people’s room. It isn’t much larger than my bedroom, but as I am one of only three Zouk learners tonight this should prove to be too much of a problem.

A man in a random clothes combination approaches. He wears the kind of mismatch outfit that I would only throw together under Lemsip sedation and wear to the doctor’s surgery.

He introduces himself as our tutor and then asks if I am a professional dancer. (No really he does). I pity the man’s poor eyesight and stunned by the question I resist the urge to fabricate some spoof dance credentials and give an honest answer. Sometimes I surprise myself.

The question is posed to the two other dancers in the room. They manage to look bashful and smug at the same time. Yes - we establish that they are both professionals. Oh goody. This is going to be fun / embarrassing / undignified /humiliating* (*delete where appropriate).

As ever we begin by learning the basic steps, counting along the way. It’s remarkably like a Lambada – another dance I hated. I instantly hate this too. And once we have mastered the counting we are instructed to prowl and look sexy by launching our whole body into each step. There’s nothing worse than being asked to look sexy whilst doing basic arithmetic in a pair of socks. And when I do dare to look at the other dancers in the mirror, they appear to be in a full flow rendition of some sort of narcissistic dance orgy.

I get my coat.

But leave my dignity somewhere behind.

November - the dread shoes

Way back in January when I embarked upon this project, I vowed that of all the dance styles available I would most definitely NOT be taking a ballet class. However being a lady in possession of huge amounts of pigheadedness and yet not an ounce of shame, I find myself leg-warmered-up and ready for a beginners’ class.

It’s a full class today so I make myself known to the tutor as the first-timer. This move is possibly unnecessary. Clearly I’m the only person in the room over five feet tall who is not made out of rubber.

The ladies and a token lad stretch around me. There are limbs everywhere; at every imaginable and unimaginable angle. There is also a lot of knitwear. I am guessing that these are home-knits as I have never seen leg warmers that reach the thighs, not to mention the knitted leotard with matching knitted leggings being sported behind me. I am hoping that this is machine-washable.

Our tutor is a tall and sturdy French gentleman with a face from the Beano and a beer belly from his local. I doubt his ability to do anything but hang out with the Bash Street Kids or down a pint of Kronenbourg. Yet when he moves, he too is as bendy as rubber, as light as a feather and as graceful as - well a ballet dancer.

We begin by learning repetitive positions and moves at the bar.

It’s plies.

It’s demi-plies.

It’s leg lifts.

It’s other manoeuvres that I don’t possibly know the French terminology for.

It’s hard work.

And after a full hour of basically squatting the safety of the bars are removed and we take to the open floor.

This is where I appear to have suffered memory loss. Either that or I am slightly embarrassed about my first attempt of doing a pirouette in public. I will leave it to your imagination.

The class draws to a spinney end and bizarrely I leave feeling none of the intimidation and fear that I thought I would get from a ballet class.

My dancing is clearly still falling flat.

My shamelessness is thankfully coming along in leaps and bounds.

October - lame & bad

We have reached the back end of October already and I’m a recovering cold-aholic. Yet despite thundering sinuses I am determined to crashdance before the month is through.

I decide upon the Lambada. I’m not exactly sure why. In fact I have absolutely no idea what the Lambada is. (Retrospectively I’m still not sure I could enlighten you either). The dance school brochure informs me that it is in fact not a model of car, but a passionate and graceful Brazilian party dance. Nope I’m still none the wiser.

I arrive punctually and take my place in the stairwell. There’s a Samba going on in the next classroom. It looks hectic and my sinuses pulse in time to the Latino beats.

We wait.

We wait some more.

We wait some more still.

I am told that this is the “Brazilian way”.

(It’s the British way to be punctual… I’m just saying).

To break the monotony of waiting, up bounds Kitty - a blond, athletic, tall and eager first-time Lambada dancer. She is giddy with excitement in a half dancer, half Labrador kind of way.

Kitty is a trained dancer but similarly doesn’t have a clue what the Lambada is. And despite already establishing myself as a first-timer too, I suddenly become the Lambada expert. She excitably fires off questions. These quickly bore me, so I less excitably make up answers.

We eventually are allowed into the classroom. There’s not many of us present (some presumably have perished with the wait & the incessant questions in the stairwell). To compensate and pad out the numbers we have been given two tutors who launch us immediately into a warm up comprising of the basic Lambada steps.

It’s tragic to say but I am instantly lost in the warm up alone. The problem stems from the fact that I can’t even see the tutor’s feet beneath her unfeasibly long trousers. So in my imagination the basic Lambada steps consist of a moon walk. Upon request she hikes up her trouser legs like a Brighton beach paddler. This doesn’t give off the graceful air of “Brazilian party” dance attire and after checking herself out in the mirror they are promptly rolled back into place.

We get to work mastering the three beat steps – leading from the right / no the left / no the right / did I say right? I meant left… To be honest no one including the tutors seems to know which foot to lead from, which keeps us on our toes (literally) in a kind of Russian roulette kind of way.

Not having mastered the basic steps we are then paired up with partners. I pull the short straw and get a sweaty, shouty man. I always thought the true art of leading a dance was meant to be subtle and implicit - not through the means of hollering the words “RIGHT” and “LEFT” to the follower.

I holler back.

My holler does not contain the words RIGHT nor LEFT).

And just before I can get into the full swing of my hissy fit, a mass exodus begins from the classroom. We have literally been saved by both the bell and a throng of African dance enthusiasts eagerly waiting to get in.

“Was this your first time?” One of the tutors inquires.

Either she is impeccably polite or she has had worse first-timers than me.

I think I know which option I’d place my bet on.

Similarly you can bet your life it will also be my last time too.