The other night Sebastien and I went to a dance studio that was hosting a swing dancing session. We needed to practice so we can show off our limited skills on the dance floor next weekend and took the opportunity to go to a studio because we just don’t have enough room in our apartment. At home, every time Sebastien tries to spin me around, I step on the cat or bump into the couch or kitchen table, which are a mere 20 inches apart. I just hope the bruises go away before the wedding or we might have to answer some questions about domestic abuse.
When we arrived at the studio, a group of young hipsters were already twirling their partners around the dance. But their footwork didn’t look anything like what we had spent the past month learning how to do. It almost looked cooler.
My gaze went from the dancers to Sebastien, who was slightly confused.
“They’re dancing the lindy hop,” I said. “So it’s not the same kind of swing that we learned.”
He said, “It doesn’t look like swing at all.”
I patted Sebastien on the shoulder like a mother consoling a poor boy who just found out Superman does not exist. But it did not calm him.
“So our dance instructor taught us a bunch of shit.”
“No, he taught us swing dancing. Just a different kind.”
I could sense that we were going to end up in one of those never-ending disagreements that degrades into childish mockery of one another and ends only when we get bored.
“So what do you want to do?” he finally said.
“Let’s just practice our dance for a while and forget about the music.”
And forget about the music we did. For a half an hour Sebastien and I sashayed around the dance floor completely out of sync with the music and not at all mindful of the dancers around us: we had a few moves that required a little more space, so Sebastien just hurled me into other couples like a bowling ball aiming for the pins.
We’ll do our best to not injure our guests on the night of the wedding. Better bring some padding just in case.