Dancing on the Sidewalk

Well, last night's dance class was an eye-opener. In my mind, a waltz has always conjured images of a grand ballroom, Josef Strauss, and Vienna on New Year's Eve. Turns out, there's more than one way to skin that cat and by the end of the hour, I knew what I was doing well enough to waltz my way up the street to my car -- sans partner, that is.

Admittedly, I felt a little self-conscious but I figured any passers-by must be familiar with the site of students dancing on the sidewalk in front of our classroom, so why not? I didn't waste time any getting in the car, though, since the psych unit is fairly close by and the last thing I wanted was to spend the evening trying to explain to an overworked resident on-call that I really was practicing and it was all a big misunderstanding.

Shoot, with my luck, s/he'd have probably asked for a demonstration and that would have been all they needed to admit me on the spot. Anyway, it is the arts district after all, and you'd think folks (including the police) would be used to the budding Baryshnikov, caught up in a moment of inspiration, leaping and pirouetting down the sidewalk. I didn't leap, by the way, just so you know.

The closest I came to a pirouette was the little side-step, back turn between the right open box and the left promenade steps. Don't worry about what those mean -- I'm not even sure I got their names right, and for me, that's where dancing and real life meet. You see, I have the hardest time remembering names -- faces I'll remember for years, names, uh-uh. Fortunately, where dancing is concerned, all my feet have to do is not forget where they're going and I think I'll be okay. I gave up on names a long time ago.


(Creative Commons image via Wikipedia)