I don't have any pictures of me dancing, so here's me normally: with bed-head, no makeup, and out in the woods. I clean up a little for going to the club, but not much.
Salsa, bachata, and the art of being human
This week I went Latin dancing with my sister Mary. Usually I'm the kind of person who's happily snuggled inside for the night by 9pm, but every once in a while, I put on my lone pair of heels (hand-me-downs that I got when I was 15), brush on some mascara, and hop in the car for a ride to the glittering city, where we dance from my regular bedtime until the clock strikes twelve.
I've always enjoyed dancing, and especially during my teen years relished all the opportunities to move my body to loud music: prom in spring and a Jane-Austen-style Christmas ball in winter, indie-rock concerts and spontaneous square-dancing sessions with friends in the interim. The chances to dance get fewer as you leave high school behind, and so an occasional outing to the salsa club is a welcome time.
This kind of dancing is a fascinating interplay of social interaction: it's expected that you'll dance with a different partner each time, and so my socially-anxious self has learned how to approach guys and ask them to dance, and to gracefully accept when someone asks me. The music is too loud for talking, really, which I prefer; I enjoy a social interaction that doesn't require me to come up with topics or figure out what to say. The steps are predetermined, and since I follow rather than lead, I can just relax and focus on keeping in step with the guy. If he's good I fall into almost a trance, thinking of nothing except the movement of my body, the push and pull of the pressure on my right hand and my left shoulder-blade.
After a particularly nice bachata dance, my partner asked me politely if I would like to go out on a date. It was the first time in my entire life that anyone had asked me out on a date (being asked out by a boyfriend or husband doesn't count), and I was somewhat embarrassed but mostly flattered as I explained that I was married, despite the absence of a wedding ring.
He took it gracefully, and I went on to dance with someone else, feeling a bit like I was floating on air. (For a split second I worried that Zach might feel jealous, but when I told him the next day he laughed and said, "Nice!" Every day he gives me something new to swoon over.) I felt capable, and confident, and for an instant both not like my usual self and more myself than I'd been in a while. It was nice to shine for a moment.
That night, when I arrived home around 12:45 and slipped under the covers next to Zach, I felt a profound, almost primal sense of the relief. The club was loud and exciting and overwhelming and full of beautiful chaos; my bed at home was quiet and calm and restful and familiar as a heartbeat. Zach curled up against me in his sleep, and I laid with him cuddled against my back, winding myself down to the rhythm of his breath.
I read in an online post once that most small talk boils down to two people saying, "You're a human? So am I! We both are!" Dance is another way of saying that: an act of communicating in a different way, and acknowledging that we are bodies and not just minds. You are a human. (One-two-three pause.) I am a human. (Five-six-seven pause.) Let's be human together.
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