Stumped

I am standing before The Man on the Wall. He is smiling benignly. We have been at it nearly two hours. Sometimes we dance without stopping; sometimes we take a break and go at it again.

We are taking a break now. I am stumped.

The Man on the Wall waits. If patience is a virtue, he must be a saint. A happy one. Though he’s bald. And emaciated. And frankly, his grin seems more clueless than cute right this minute.

I have not danced in three days. Tomorrow I have a private lesson. I need to get back in the game. I want to make good progress, not spend half the class working out kinks.

Tonight I have practiced walking, Eleven Perfect Steps. Front and back ochos with my hands on the shoulders of The Man on the Wall. Turns around the stick this way and that. Turns without the stick, this way and that. Ocho cortados. My balance is good enough now that I can practice exits from the cross by myself--I mean, with The Man on the Wall.

What next? The Man on the Wall has no suggestions. He’s still a rank beginner; there are not many steps he can do. And he can’t lead worth a damn.

No, I take that back. He is fine, really. No different than usual. I am only cranky because of my lesson tomorrow.

The Man on the Wall has been my practice buddy all along. Loyal and cheerful. Always willing. Always approving.

When the men at the Turn and the Merc make me feel like I cannot do one single thing right, I can always come home and dance with The Man on the Wall.

When I actually could not do one single thing right—not even stand up in these shoes—The Man on the Wall cheered me on. When I couldn’t walk a single step without falling into the sofa, his smile reminded me, “Isn’t this silly? Won’t it be great when we get it right?”

When I staggered and swore, he was steadfast. Tears of frustration never discomfited him.

When I fell in love with ochos, he was an Ironman. Tom says that women doing ochos are like Energizer bunnies; if you get them started, it’s hard to get them to stop. With The Man on the Wall, I could do ochos ’til I dropped.

When Nina and Grisha were teaching together, and they wanted to build musical awareness, they asked their students to dance free-form alone to the music. I froze in the class but found my groove with The Man on the Wall.

When I danced to Alfred Apaka, even as Tango Colorado went up in flames over alternative music, The Man on the Wall kept his mouth shut.

When I ran through dance personas like water (butterfly, badass, lesbian, queen), The Man on the Wall remained true.

When I finally brought myself to give up my ballet shoes—admit I am giving up on ballet—he looked on while I took a last, elegiac photo.

When I wore the Oriental silk bustier that Andrea made me buy, which will never see the light of the Merc or the Turn, The Man on the Wall pretended only casual interest.

When New Zealand quit tango, The Man on the Wall hung around.

I wouldn’t be in tango today if it weren’t for The Man on the Wall.

I am doing OK. After six months, I am still here. I haven’t mastered Eleven Perfect Steps, but I can do Eleven Pretty Good ones. Leads appreciate my pretty good balance. Usually, I can pivot and hang around on one foot.

A handful of men ask me to dance. One says I’ve made lots of progress. Another says he likes that we are becoming accustomed to dancing together. Glenlivet says nothing, which is A-OK, because he never criticized, either. He is the closest thing going to The Man on the Wall.

Still. Here I stand, stumped. The Man on the Wall has all good intentions, but he can’t help me now. It’s 8 p.m. There’s a practica in Boulder, but I don’t want to drive that far. I have been packing. I have had wine. I am tired.

One more time through the Di Sarli CD. Eleven Perfect Steps. Ochos. Turns this way and that. Whatever else I can manage on my own.