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I'm not sure what we were thinking: we haven't danced since our wedding, and we were barely getting by then. Plus, performing on a dance floor that belongs to you (okay, it was rented, but still) is way different from a place where people are serious about ballroom dancing.
So, after six weeks of no practice, we have completely forgotten the foxtrot and the swing (on any coast), never learned the cha cha, and are left with a rusty waltz, tango and rhumba. Then we decide to drive down to Granada Hills to a weekly dance with live music.
The dance price includes a lesson at 6:30 (they were doing some very tricky cha cha steps this night), and boxed wine, soft drinks and snacks. Then about 8, the dance floor opens. These old people may look frail, but I'm tellin ya, they'll mow you down if you don't get out of their way.
Iris, our dance teacher, did a lot of talking about the "line of dance" and how you had to keep moving in a counterclockwise motion on the floor. She even tried to give us a taste of it by insisting we foxtrot in a circle. But nothing she said prepared me for the sheer terror of trying to hold on to your little bit of floor, not get run over, not bump into anyone else, and attempt to make a decent showing of your available steps.
We don't really know how to take our dancing out into traffic, so we contented ourselves with dancing in the middle of the floor, sort of a "kiddie pool" if you will. Of course, you often had couples using it as a passing lane, so we weren't really even safe there.
There were a couple of Antelope Valley people there that we recognized: a former coworker, and the attorney who did my parents' living trust.
Everyone was very nice to us. There seemed to be lots of regulars greeting one another, and cake appeared for two women who were celebrating birthdays. The atmosphere is part senior gathering, part high-school dance, and part ballroom dance classroom (without the glare of overhead lights).
If you prefer age-appropriate clothing on women of a certain age, steer clear of this place. There were great-grandmothers in skirts that barely covered their asses, and lots of rhinestone and sequined dresses and shoes.
One senior whipped off her coat, displaying a silver and black bubble-hemmed mini dress. She proceeded to dance with the partner she brought with her. Well, actually she did most of the dancing, moving around him, gesticulating in a very dramatic fashion, while he moved in place.
There were varying skill levels demonstrated on the floor, and a few fantastic couples meant to inspire us —or serve as a rebuke for not practicing— I'm not sure which. One Filipino couple in dramatic costumes danced like they were patiently waiting for "So You Think You Can Dance" to call, although they never smiled.
That was in contrast to the middle-aged guy in the Capezio jazz shoes and aloha shirt dancing with a woman in a super-bright skirt. They grinned the whole time, like they were having the time of their lives. He even tried to do some Lindy-hop lifts, a valiant, yet unsuccessful effort. Not that it was all his fault, if you know what I mean.
The really talented couples were good about teaching steps to others. They would switch partners with another couple and show them moves.
Everyone dances with everyone, and if you leave your dance partner unattended, he or she is likely to be swooped up by someone else. But it is a curiously non-sexual atmosphere. Previously in my life, the combination of dancing, music, and people of the opposite sex spelled romance, or at least hooking up. But this seems like a meritocracy: no matter what you look like or how old you are, it is your dance skills that make you popular.
The band called a "mixer" dance, with women on one side of the room, and guys on the other. They pair off and dance down the middle of the room, then part, and get back in line to await another partner. It allows couples to dance with other people, and unaccompanied ladies to have a partner. We couldn't participate, because we can barely dance with each other, let alone other people.
My husband looked at the line of ladies waiting their turn at grabbing a partner during the mixer and said: "Oh God, it's like junior high all over again." Yes, yes, it was, and some scars never fade, I guess.
