Faking It

By the time S and I got to dancing, the dancing was in full swing. They were learning a dance we'd liked to have learned, but as soon as we hit the dance floor, it was over, never to be taught again, or at least that night. Why the instructor chose to reteach all the other dances we already knew is simply a reminder that no one at dancing likes us.

Not the five people who all knew each other that decided to not dance near each other but spread out in three rows so that they would wave and call to each other during dances and then jumble up in between everyone else on the dance floor between dances.

Not the older gentleman who was part of that group and the much younger Asian girl who was apparently with him. That was an interesting couple. I don't know if they're in a car pool or if they're dancing partners or if they're friends or what, but it's interesting to watch them dance together.

Not the young man in neon green shirt and sneakers who thought that every move should be danced as if it were part of the Electric Slide and we were at his Sweet Sixteen bash.

Not the three tween girls who thought that it was perfectly fine to dance their own dance in the middle of everyone doing the actual dance, thereby pushing and shoving into people kind of accidentally but really obnoxiously on purpose.

Maybe the guy who smiled and said to S, mufflemufflemumblemumble, when she said she was getting dizzy from all the turning, but no, if he really liked us, he would have said something more understandable. Maybe.

And definitely not Banana Clip and her husband who twirl around the dance floor as if they're practicing for a competition (as S suggested they might be). They are a powerhouse dance couple. Last week, the man said he hurt his leg at the end of the night. I'm pretty sure he broke it in several places. Banana Clip was like, we've got an ice pack in the car for that. They both insisted he'd be fine. That's professional. Not only are they prepared with an ice pack that somehow stays cold for two hours on a hot night in a hot car in a hot parking lot at the hot beach, but their ice pack can heal a jacked up leg in minutes.

I think they might be simply attempting to put everyone else to shame, especially me. Somehow, for some reason, when every dance stopped, they stopped right next to me. Everyone in the middle was line dancing, and they were couple dancing around the perimeter. At the end of the night when S and I were watching Raise Your Glass and other advanced dances from the bleachers, that couple spent about the last two minutes of the song directly in front of us, rubbing it in that they knew how to dance.

In all, we relearned Mama Maria and The Lazy Song, but we did them both to the original songs and then to different songs because the steps are transferrable to other dances with the same rhythm and beats. We also learned Cooler Than Me, which S and I know from Jean's class, so we rocked that out while people had trouble walking while counting to four and turning around and walking back from where they came for four. The woman who stood on the end of the row next to me was having extreme difficulty with this move, but at least she was having fun with it, laughing with her friends who stood in the rows ahead of her. I think standing in a different row from your friend is becoming a new trend.



During the break between lessons, the instructor played Hello Dolly. Having danced Hello Dolly last summer and then every friggin week since then, S and I were able to not only participate with the very few people on the dance floor during that particular dance, but we were able to strut it out because we knew it so well.

I'm still not sure what I think of the instructor as she continues to ask where the math geniuses are and then chides us when most people don't count to eight on the beat. She insists that if you can count to eight, you can dance. That's so not true. You have to be able to count to eight TO THE MUSIC. I can count to eight very quickly or very slowly or by twos or by fours. You have to be able to find the music's rhythm. Her statement is as false as the aerobics instructor Petra Kolber's idea that if you can walk, you can dance. No, no you can't.

Case in point--the women who could not walk four steps forward and then four steps back.

Case in point--everyone turning in all different directions when we were dancing to Cooler Than Me. Some people faced the ocean. Some people faced the stage. Some people were diagnal, not facing any of the four walls. It was at that point the instructor asked, You call that an eighth and an eighth????? Nice encouragement.

She also kept asking, Are you faking it? Faking it okay? Faking it? Faking it? Well, you're all facing the right way, so you must have faked it!

Maybe we actually danced it correctly. I mean, once or twice during the lesson, that's funny, especially when the dance is difficult and most people somehow make it to the right wall using all the wrong steps. But for a dance that has about four basic steps that we've done over and over and then once more after the break, no, we know it by now.

Oh, she also told two women that they should have come earlier when the women called out, Slower!, after the instructor asked, Everybody got it? Granted, she was reteaching a dance, but if you don't really want your students answering you or asking you to go more slowly, then don't ask if everyone has it. She then repeated, Lessons start 7:30 to 9:30. I wanted to call out, No they start at 7:30 and END at 9:30 but I didn't think my English lesson would have made much sense to anyone. Nor would have it earned me any growth in the friendship department.

A stickler for time, the instructor said good night to everyone at 9:30 exactly. Some of the more advanced dancers who are her students in other classes asked her to play Footloose. She said they'd have to come next week. Yet, when S and I hit the boardwalk to walk to the car, Footloose came on, as if she'd waited for anyone she didn't know to clear out before catering to the people who already know the dances. We are so not in the in-crowd. Or in this case, the in-line.