Dance, Dance, Dance

Dance, Dance, Dance

            I felt pretty good about my conscientious eating choices for the day, and was feeling even better about my daily exercise. Robert and I are taking country dance lessons, so I was looking forward to a break from jogging and walking for a night of Western Cha-Cha. We are relatively new to the sport, but he gifted me with some spectacular boots for Christmas, so it really didn’t matter if I danced well or not, the boots made me look good anyway.

            The Stampede, Denver’s premier Dance Emporium, is the scene of our latest undertaking, and I must admit is a pretty sweet set-up. Dance lessons are $3 each, and include a free fajita bar and $2 drinks. It’s a pretty big place, and very popular for country music fans. The clientele and dynamic are interesting to watch, with the early evening hours being frequented mostly by the middle-age to elderly crowd, such as ourselves, who are there for the free food, lessons and the chance to promenade around the mostly empty dance floor.

            Having become Friday night regulars, we are beginning to see the same people there each week. My favorite is an older couple, who seem to be holding each other up as they dance around the floor slowly. She is thin and bent over at the waist, but wears the most elaborate outfits, including her fancy boots. He shuffles along, holding her arm as they step up onto the dance floor, then, like the game we played as children where we pushed against each other and relied on the tension to keep us both from tipping over, they dance the night away, slowly, to their own rhythm and pace. They’re delightful.

            Then there’s “show off girl.” I think she is or must have been a dancer, because she always has the fake smile of a performer on her face, and doesn’t really follow any of the formal dances, but twirls and twists like its her own personal stage. Her partners are merely platforms to showcase her talent, and they obligingly offer their hand for twirling as she smiles and gestures grandly to her imaginary audience. I begrudgingly admit she has an extraordinary sense of rhythm, but she doesn’t look really happy when she dances.

            Unlike Robert and I, who have a diminished sense of rhythm, but try hard and end up laughing as we are about to be run over by the crowd of dancers who always seem to be tidal waving us. Country dancing involves constantly moving forward, much like roller skating rinks. If you are caught unaware, as we often are, you look up to see the entire group heading your way. The elders, and the learners, are pretty considerate and will laugh at us as they dance around use, but as the night wears on the floor gets more crowded and there’s less room for error within the crowd.

            We are definitely getting better though, and are slowly mastering the two-step, the twelve-step and the County Cha-Cha, which is proving to be one of my favorites because it feels like we’re actually dancing with each other, instead of just following the crowd. We will persevere, but I think next week we will take a break and go to Lincoln’s Roadhouse, where we can dance with reckless abandon, and not only will we not be judged as we bounce around with no formal footwork, but everyone else in the joint will be doing the same.