Eleven Perfect Tango Steps, Part 1: I Stand

I have no sense of my body: the sizes and shapes of my limbs, their length, their relative weight. My center of gravity, like magnetic north, migrates at an astonishing rate. My limbs have no apparent relationship to my torso, and I myself am lost in relation to external objects, the world.

All of this goes to balance. When I walk the narrow halls at work, I run the fingers of my right hand along the wall. This controls the careening. At every doorway I lose my bearings just a bit. Momentum carries me past the gap, and then the wall resumes. Conventional wisdom says not much is expected of middle management; barring disability, however, you are expected to be able to walk. Subtly I orient myself to walls; on stairs I grip the banister. I always wear flats.

So tango shoes, with their 3.5-inch heels, promise quite an adventure. I strap myself in as a parachutist might do. Check, double-check, jiggle and shift, adjust this and that, check again for good measure. Everything right and tight? Best to be sure before taking the leap. I place my hands on the arms of my chair, brace myself and push off.

I stand.