“Stretch your fingers!”
I thought I did, but obviously the dance instructor didn’t notice that. Miriam Makeba’s Pata-pata continued to blare as we did the compact chasse (forgive the spelling). A compact chasse is a common step in dancing the Cha-cha-cha, as any dance aficionado would tell you. At the risk of sounding crude, the best way to describe the movement is to imagine a 4 year old toddler trying to hold the pee in without having to go to the toilet. While the body stays rooted, the legs will need to move alternately against each other in the following tempo slow(right)-slow(left)-fast(ri
A mess I may be but I would like to think I have perseverance. Either that or sheer stubbornness in trying to master some Latin American dances. It’s already been a year since I first started. Collected some artistic blisters on my feet despite religiously lining my toes with band-aids before each class. Toes that bled (and therefore, rather unsightly for stilletto-wearing events) after having the other foot accidentally stepped on them on numerous occasions. But I’ve to say with the tiniest hint of self-achievement, I do feel that I’m fitter than before. Anyway, it’s truth to be acknowledged that anything is fitter than a himono-onna whose idea of a good weekend is to stay in front of the tv with a fridge of chocolates within reach.
One year on, I can dance basic routines for Cha-cha-cha, Samba, Rumba and Jive. My dance instructor may think otherwise as he humorously (or intentionally?) bemoans my physical deficiencies on a weekly basis. Talk about a warped sense of humour. Last week, my fingers were thought to be blessed with natural glue as they seemed to stick together in unity despite my attempts. The other week, it was a mystery as to why my long legs did not equal to long strides while dancing Samba. The week before, my hips just didn’t sway enough for anyone to notice that I was doing the Rumba. And of course, I’ll just die while Jiving because I can’t seem to lift my knees that high on every count of ‘a’.
It is this torture that I faithfully subject myself to, come every Sunday. And it’s surprising why I keep putting on my dancing shoes even in my spare time. Or moments of insanity when I’ll mentally run through the steps while queuing for lunch. Or discreetly moving my legs in a ‘check-step’ position while ensuring that the back leg is perfectly turned out. In fact, I’m now constantly on the look out for music for my practice sessions. I’ve never given a hoot for J Lo’s music in the past but it is her music now that I think of whenever I’m practising the Samba. Such is the extent of the madness engulfing my state of mind.
But the greatest challenge still awaits me. While I’ve danced behind closed doors, I have never tried dancing Latin dances in public. Perhaps an opportunity to do so may present itself, somewhere in the near future. After all, I’ve read that toddlers dance before they can walk. And I was once a toddler too, even if this concept is hard to grasp. So I’m not wrong to think that there’s a dancer in everyone of us. It’s only a matter of you being an exceptionally good dancer, average or the Oh-God-Please-Don’t-Dance kind of dancer.
I’m the latter but hey, if I can afford to dance on the streets of Rio de Janeiro, I’ll be on the first flight out. Just need to pack those dancing shoes and a few ounces of confidence. However, I know I’ll have to assume another identity then, lest I’m unwittingly responsible for a viral video that can surpass Psy’s steps in Oppa Gangnam Style.
p/s: I've to put away my dancing shoes for this weekend as we celebrate the Eid Adha. Here's wishing a blessed celebration and happy holidays!
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