One, Two, Cha Cha Cha!

After a three-hour evening class, in the dark basement of an old building, my energy level isn’t exactly at protein shake conditions. The class focuses on memoirs and narratives and should be right up my alley, but I'm still getting used to the lengthy set up. So when 6:30 rolls around, I’m ready to make the walk home, eat dinner and probably sink into my bed for the night. Sounds like a plan right? Not quite.

Instead, I have one more class to go to: introduction to ballroom dancing. I know, it’s not exactly a necessary staple of my education, and while zoning out, I seriously considered just skipping it altogether and that would be that. But I’m a second-semester senior and taking all sorts of outlandish classes – scuba, horseback riding, underwater photography, and the most popular beer and wine appreciation – is what second-semester seniors do. What kind of senior would I be if I bagged the entire class without giving is one whirl? So I suck up my laziness/tiredness and head across campus to the studio to my first intro to ballroom dance class. I’m soon to find out a more appropriate name for the course might be Dating 101.

I file in the large studio with a bunch of other Fred Astair wannabes. The filing seems to go on forever, until the room is crowded with students. I haven’t seen this many of my peers in one place since the Sadler dorm caught on fire sophomore year. There are significantly more women than men, but I’m surprised that there are as many guys a there are- probably mostly boyfriends who were suckered into the class by their girlfriends, but maybe that’s an unfair assumption and prancing to outdated music suddenly got cool again. A woman a vaguely recognize comes up too me.

“Hiiii!” she says in a high-pitched, Fran Drescheresque voice, “we had a class together! Writing 205” She then proceeds to call me Sharon and, because it’s nice to know someone in a class, she sticks near me for a while. “I’m already a ballroom dancer,” she explains. “I just wanted to brush up. Great, I think. I wonder how many students are actually beginner frauds. I picture the class waltzing and spinning around me in perfect synchronization while I’m stepping on my partner’s shiny shoes.

A short old man in a dress pants and shirt, and a suit vest, sashays to the middle of the floor and instructs the women to sit in the back half of the room in four straight lines facing the men, who sit in the front of the room facing the women. It’s like a staring contest of the sexes – nearly impossible not to check out the good on the other side.

Looking left, I spot my friend Nick, a good looking blond guy who I ran into yesterday morning at the gym. Then in the afternoon he sent me an email saying it was nice to see me and he hopes we meet up again soon. Maybe it’s fate. Looking right, there’s Matt. He’s a teacher’s assistant for the class; I knew him vaguely on more than one occasion. He dated my ex-boyfriend’s roommate back when he was an undergrad. Then, for about half of last summer he lived across the street. We’d talk occasionally, usually in passing. To my surprise, I find this may be the first time at Syracuse I’ve seen more attractive men than women.

“Welcome to ballroom dancing” the ballroom guru announces. “This class will be of great benefit in your lives. I’m not guaranteeing anything, but many students have met their matches in this class.”

Ballroom guru, with the help of the TA’s teaches us a couple basic foxtrot moves. Box. Balance. Two step. Nothing fancy, but enough to trip up a few. A girl bumps in to me after failing to switch from a box to a balance of Ballroom guru’s command. The men seem to have the moves down, but most of them look so robotic you want to get out the oil can.

If enrollment in offbeat electives is a staple of being a second-semester senior, in my book, so is taking advantage of the fact that this is likely to be the last time I’ll be in a community where I’m surrounded by so many eligible people my own age. I’m not saying a intend to be a floozy, but I think exploring a few options, if options present themselves is not out of the question for most of us.

After a few minutes of practicing the motions in single file, same-sex lines. Ballroom guru instructs the men to face the wall and asks the woman to approach them, tap someone on the shoulder and ask him to dance, “at which, of course, he will accept,” Ballroom Guru ensures.

“Oh, and phone numbers are optional,” he adds. We all approach the guys. Unfortunately for us there are only about 50 guys and more than 90 women. Because I came from on of the back rows of women, by the time I get to the guys it seems the majority have already been tapped. Just when I think I’m doomed to act as one of the male partners, I hear a voice shout “Becca!”

I turn around. Matt’s smiling at me, his hand stretched towards me. After I take it in my own he leads me to a free space in the wide circle of paired up dances. It's a little like Cinderella without the glass splinters. We start off where we left off over the summer, talking about school, life and post-graduation plans. He tells me he’s looking into moving to New York City or the D.C. area and I respond that those cities also make my list of possible destination. “Can you believe Ballroom Guru is 83?” Matt asks me, and I’m actually quite shocked. I wouldn’t have pegged the energetic old man for a day over 75. Maybe dancing really does keep you young. We move good together, as my dance background helps me pick up the steps and motions quite easily. A couple times, though, our conversation is going so well Matt forgets to listen to Ballroom Guru’s instructions on which move to do and we step all over each other’s feet.

Next it’s the guys’ turns to tap the women on the shoulder and ask us to dance. Matt taps me again. “I figured I’d keep a good thing going. Plus, I don’t know anyone else in the class,” he jokes.

“I see how it is. I’m your partner by default!” I laugh. “That’s no way to make new friends.” We talk it up again and as we quickly move from the tired foxtrot to the livelier cha cha, Matt teaches me moves that Ballroom Guru hasn’t yet given us. Perhaps Matt is my ballroom guru, after all.

When we dance past Nick I shoot his a smile and he sends on back my way. When the class is over I say goodbye to Matt and head home. I feel like I’ve done a 180 in less than two hours. I’m not tired anymore and I certainly don’t regret my decision to go to the class. Dancing really is good for the soul.

At home, I’m hit with a bout of confidence. Near strangers have boldly sent me online messages in the past, but I’ve never had the guts to do the same. But this time, I think what the hell. I have nothing to lose. I open the message Nick wrote to me the day before and respond:
It was great seeing you at ballroom tonight! Hope to talk soon.

Then I write out another message to Matt:
Hey hey. It was good seeing you again :) I'm glad you're doing well. We didn't get a chance to this summer we should hit the bars sometime. Now that I mean, now that I'm not a foxtrot virgin and all. Ryan Karl (who's sitting in front of me drinking a martini at our house) says hi. Anyway, if I don't talk to you before, have a good week. –b

Before sending it I contemplate my spicy choice of words. This isn’t usually my style at all, but I’m in a good mood and feeling like risk taking. And plus, I have no expectations and I’m not necessarily that into him at the moment. Just…curious. Curious and ready for some fun. For a second opinion, I ask my friends Vaughn and Ryan (I’ll talk much more about these too soon) if they think the message is too much and they both eagerly support the sending of this message. Viola! It’s sent.

The next day, I’m happy to find a message back from Matt:
Yeah definitely... it was good seeing you too. You also kinda lost your cha cha virginity. It was a busy night for you. See you soon.

Right on, I smile to myself. I can’t help but feel good and look forward to the next day of boxes and balances. To new partners and new ways to move. I can’t help but feel, being abroad for four months, I have quite a bit of catching up to do. And I can’t help but feel some entitlement to having a damn good time.