Friday, November 10, 2006

A Conversation I Never Expected To Have Aged 23 and 4/5ths.

A Conversation I Never Expected To Have Aged 23 and 4/5ths.

"I think you should come to beginners' ballet with me"

I do a little double take, checking in the process that I'm not hearing voices. Or rather valiantly hoping that I am hearing voices because early insanity is undoubtedly preferable to the thought of me going to beginners' ballet. And not just going to beginners' ballet but going with someone who trained at London Contemporary. The damage to my ego does not bear thinking about.

D looks back at me and I realise he's serious. If the world is to end due to a meterorite, polar ice cap melting or the universe contracting because of the mass within it then now might be the best moment for its destruction. Please.

"I can't dance!"

This comes out as an involuntary shriek, the words rising and coating the surrounding air in my abject fear. And I'm having mental flashes, the type you undoubtedly have when you're about to die.

D chooses to ignore my obvious panic.

"Yes you can, I've seen you dance"

This is said as one might talk to a particularly over-wrought three year old. Its only immediate effect, however, is to deepen my panic. Because I've seen the articles of clothing with high lycra contents in them that D currently has in his bag. And it is safe to say that my bottom does not need to go anywhere near lyrca. It doubly does not need to go anywhere near lycra when dancing.

And anyway, my natural poise and grace is not something that is ever commented on. My ability to remember events I really shouldn't remember or my ability to spot photos of Sienna Boho Princess from considerable distances or even my ability to know all the scene numbers for random plays - yes, yes and again yes. But dancing. No, no, no. Even when I did succumb and allow D to teach me 'The Hilton'* the fact remains that it's taken weeks for me to be able to do it unaided and even now I don't do it quite right. And that's a dance that is meant to be crap.

"I was dancing to Steps! That does not count!"

I yell it with a flourish. Because you can't argue that a fairly impressive knowledge of the dance back catalogue of Steps constitutes the ability to dance properly. And I was tanked up on rum that night.

"It's still movement"

I shake my head. The panic is subsiding with the realisation that D can't fight the Steps thing. D, however, just smiles. It's mildly disconcerting.

D goes to ballet. I don't. But I can't help the overwhelming feeling that whilst I may have won the battle I have lost the war.

*'The Hilton' - verb, dance involving jiggly movement of upper body as orginated by Paris Hilton.

2 comments: said...

ooohooooooh London contemporary. *gets all excited*.

Ask him whether he can fouettes and whether he does them RAD style or chechetti would you!

I want to see him dance. hm, Youtube?

dormerportal said...

Ah ballet lessons, the polka, the nylon leotard, the heavy cake like make up and halitosis of the dance teacher Miss Valentine, my character skirt with rik rak edging, the joy when mama finally said I didn't have to go anymore if I didn't want to