Once, I was afraid to dance. Well, not afraid, exactly. Just hyper-aware of how bad at dancing I was. I’m relatively musical—I was the lead singer for a rock band for a few years. I have a good ear and a general sense of rhythm.
How, then, is it possible for me to be so terrible at dancing?
A friend I met in Costa Rica fondly tells me that when I dance, I resemble the little octopus in the film Finding Nemo. You know, the one who twirls to hide her malformed tentacle. It’s an apt description.
About halfway through my marriage, a childhood friend got married. Her wedding reception had a dance floor, and a cheesy DJ insisted on playing songs like the “Electric Slide” and “Macarena” to get people moving. I remained resolutely at my table, sipping a margarita and jiggling my foot in time with the beat. This was all I ever did when there was dancing. Over time, the songs became less forced, but the revelers remained on the floor, bodies writhing and jiving with abandon.
My husband begged me to dance.
“You know I don’t dance,” I admonished him.
“Come on. It’ll be fun,” he wheedled. “I promise no one will laugh. Just have some fun.”
Well, I couldn’t argue with that and still be the fun-loving person who didn’t care what people thought of her, which was who I thought I was. I relented. He took my hand and led me to the dance floor. The music changed and AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” came on. Perfect! One of my all-time favorites. When I was five years old, I had played it on a tinny portable tape deck to make it rain for my gardener mother who complained about droughts. The familiarity of the song loosened me up and I began to dance. Self-consciousness restrained my movements from being too big or wild, but hey, I was trying. The pinched tulle of my lilac dress chafed as I pumped my arms over my head and grinned like a fool.
The first verse was not even over when my husband leaned in and shouted into my ear, “Wow, you’re really not good at this, are you?”
My heart plummeted into my stomach, and my stomach plummeted to my knees. A sick wave of shame and embarrassment washed over me, grabbed my self-esteem, and ripped it out in a fierce undertow as it receded. I felt winded as if I had been punched. I stopped dancing, dumbstruck. It dawned on me that I was even more noticeable standing motionless amid all the pumping, whirling bodies, so I retreated. I slunk back to my table and my margarita. No words could convince me to leave that chair again the remainder of the night.
I did not dance in public again for the remainder of the time I lived in the States. No matter what the occasion was, who the company was, or how many drinks I downed, I could not be coaxed onto any dance floor.
Until after.
It was an accident, really. It happened about three weeks after I moved to Costa Rica. My new flatmate was eager to meet some Ticas and talked me accompanying him to a bar. It was my first experience with Ladies’ Night in Quepos, and I was not prepared.
Ladies’ Night in Central America is the embodiment of rape culture boiled down to its purest form. Usually it means there is one prepared drink women can order for free. Free all night. They fill women up with free liquor until they can barely stand, let alone say no. Men circle the bar or stand outside on the street like sharks who have scented blood in the water and are waiting for the chance to snap up easy prey.
This night was “vodka” and soda. I still don’t believe that the cheap, strong liquid was vodka. Bottom-shelf guaro, maybe. I ordered my first and watched the bartender fill my clear plastic cup three-quarters full with liquor. He splashed a bit of dark cola on top, more for decoration than as an actual mix. I drank these like regular cocktails. In no time, I was full-on borracha—drunk. I am embarrassed to say I did not exercise a single iota of self-control, downing one drink after another. We were in the nightclub in Quepos called Republik. Ear-splitting dance house music roared to the pumping of fog machines, strobe lights, and lasers. The place was packed with sinuously convulsing bodies.
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| Republik, Quepos, Costa Rica |
At the bar, a girl and I started chatting. She was at least as tipsy as I. She told me she was a belly dancer and asked me to come out onto the dance floor with her.
“Oh no,” I said, splaying my hands in the air. “I’m a terrible dancer.”
“So?” she asked.
So?! My mind grappled with this crippling argument. She had a point. What did it matter what people thought of me? Why did I care how I looked?
Before I knew it, I allowed her to drag me out into the mess of flailing bodies. I proceeded with the most atrocious crimes against dirty dancing ever committed in the history of displays of stupidity. We ground against each other, bellies rolling and hips thrusting. My arms waved like octopus tentacles in the fake fog.
I had fun. Way more fun than I would have had on the sidelines. After about two songs, I forgot to worry about how dumb I looked. I laughed—okay, I chortled. Sweat poured off my skin. I danced until the threat of dawn.
Since that night, I'm no longer afraid of dancing. If the music hits me, I dance with abandon. I am still a terrible dancer. I move my body as if I rented it for the weekend and still haven’t figured out all the tricky bits. I look like a twirling octopus.
But the difference is this:
I do it anyway.
I no longer drink much or often (and never again will I succumb to Ladies’ Night), but it still takes some courage and a chiliguaro or two to work up the nerve.
But I dance.
I dance despite the fact that I am rubbish. I dance even though I know someone in the room is probably pointing and laughing at my antics.
It’s one thing to say you don’t care what other people think. I’ve been saying that since I was a Goth teenager. But to live it, truly, takes a little courage.
I’ve decided that, sometimes, I just want to have fun for me.
This became a lot easier when I decided that I would no longer subject myself to the company of insecure and judgmental people. ✌
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| At my favorite dance spot in Boston, Massachusetts: Club Havana in Cambridge |
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| At my favorite dance spot in San José, Costa Rica: Area City in La California |
Do I dance every time there is music?
No.
Do I wish I were more graceful?
Of course.
But I’m comfortable being me now, no matter how ridiculous “me” is. I realized I don’t have to impress the whole world to be happy with myself.
Let your freak flag fly, baby.
(I know. "Dancing in public" is a pretty vanilla "freak flag." But back then, it blocked me.)I never learned how to dance.
I just learned to dance.
And it’s so silly that it took me so long.
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| Disheveled and happy, post-dancing |
