Considering that I had not taken a single ballroom/partner dance lesson since Abu Ghraib junior high gym class, and that I have a highly developed independent streak that I presumed precluded any possibility of following a lead, I was convinced that I could, in order, 1) never 2) ever 3) in a million years learn to dance with another person. I was operating under the fully formed opinion that despite Bazr's years of ballroom dance, he and I were destined for an hour of torture, frustration, and tears.
And I almost made that dream come true by my most *ridiculous* idea that we should walk the 4 miles to our tango lesson in the late afternoon BsAs sun. We arrived hot, exhausted, with swollen feet and sweating like a schvitz.
But looking back, I think the exhaustion worked in our favor-- we were too tired to think.
Our lesson was with a lovely young man named Christian. He was very nice, very kind, spoke limited but clear English, and mostly just didn't mess around: he just showed us how to tango, and let us get on with it.
And holy of holies, miracles of miracles, She-Who-Could-Not-Be-Led turns out to be.... a bit of natural, if I do say so myself. Enough to pick up the step without too much of a giddy-up. And for Bazr, the old muscle memory kicked in, with his adorable manly frame-- we actually made like we were dancing, all twenty toes intact, by the end of the hour!
We'll practice, then go for another lesson next week-- I'll keep you posted. But the flame-out I felt sure was inevitable never happened. Can the milongas of BsAs be next?
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