This morning I went to my first dance class.
I assume we aren’t counting the ballet class I took at age 6 with Motria Fedurco (yes that was her name).
The title of the class was jazz-contemporary. I’m not sure what that means but Courtney wanted to do it. So we went.
I wore leggings cause that seemed dancy and mourned the fact that I don’t have any legit dance shoes. I consoled myself with the thought that I would definitely need some once I rocked this dance class.
When we got there the studio was empty. This was slightly a problem for me since there would be no way to hide in the back.
The teacher came, introduced herself, and then promptly asked us a question about football. This was slightly off-putting since I had only prepared to talk about plies, triple axles, and french things. Clearly this was not going to be your ordinary dance class…
She had a cool haircut and blue socks. I decided to consider getting a chic mullet and some multi-colored footwear for next time.
Then we started stretching. It started mildly enough…with some neck rolls…but then she abruptly started asking me to stick my leg straight into the air from a sitting position. While we were stretching some real dancers got there. I knew they were real because they were wearing tights.
Following an extremely surprising set of crunches we were ready to dance.
She started teaching us a routine (I think she called it a sequence) to ‘Help’ by the Beatles. Go ahead. The jokes are too obvious to avoid.
Halfway through the first 8-count I was completely lost. Despite the lack of people in the room, I inched closer and closer to the back wall. She kept using terms I had never heard before: mark it, single it out. At one point she suggested doing a double turn. I avoided the suggestion. My leggings were no longer fooling anyone…I was not a dancer. Towards the end of the class, our instructor got a bit flustered because she couldn’t get her counts right. I didn’t mind that the counts were off. I was so beyond doing it wrong that it really didn’t matter whether she was stepping on 8 and leaping on 1-2.
Despite the fact that I was terrible, I was in heaven. I loved every second of the class – it totally strengthened my dream of becoming a dancer.
Of course, I can never go back to the jazz class because I was horrible…but I am hoping to find a beginner class I can start taking.
A close recap of my performance this morning: