One Heart Wrassels a B'ar, a Rascal, and a Passel of Thoughts

One Heart Wrassles a B’ar
Tuesday, August 19, the Turnverein

This guy was big, taller than me, and wiry. He looked like a long-haul trucker who lived hard, drank hard, loved hard and frequently lost at poker. His hair was longish, thickish, wavyish and white. He had on a permanent press dress shirt and, I suspect, cologne.

So far, so good. A man who carries himself around like a long-haul trucker is sufficiently self-possessed to take on tango. A man who wears a dress shirt and cologne is a man out to please the ladies. For a follower, these are good signs.

He was a beginner, but not exactly a stranger. He had been taking classes for a month or more at the Turn, and he had rented videos a few times when I was working the desk. We had not had occasion to chat, but anyone who deposits $50 for the privilege of renting circa-1970 instructional videos is a serious enough dancer for me.

As a rule I do not judge books by their cover. Well, I do in my heart of hearts, but then I tell my Heart of Hearts to be nice.

So, though he gives me pause, when he asks me to dance I say, “Sure!”

He pulls me too close; apparently his teachers have not told him that the lady gets to choose the embrace. There is a strong odor of hard liquor.

Um-hmph! my Heart of Hearts says.

I make myself big around the middle. This is a trick Nina teaches. She has taught it to me several times on the occasions I have come to her mortified.

He prefers full-body contact. He clasps me to him with an arm strengthened, I imagine, by years of gear-shifting. Then he takes a step … and ah-HA!

As a beginner, he has not yet mastered the skill of coordinating all of his parts, and so he is not very good at maintaining his hold and moving his feet at the same time. Every time his arm slackens, I pull away or make myself big. Every time I do, he re-clasps.

We go at it this way for the whole song, lurching, pulling and hauling. I imagine we could sign on as an act in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show:

One Heart Dancing Wrassels a B’ar!

I imagine this is (a) nothing new to the women of tango and (b) quite entertaining.

The B’ar is insistent, but not rude. He does not clamp me obscenely close; he’s just trying to get into a configuration that feels familiar, right to him.

I am not rude either. I am doing my Beautiful Walk and smiling. It is my rule: Smile when you dance. It is my other rule: Respect beginners by using your Beautiful Walk. In truth, I am on the verge of a laugh. This is slapstick—silliness heightened to hilarity by a dose of discomfort.

I vacillate between hoping no one is watching and hoping Stan is. Someone other than me ought to enjoy this, and if it gives him a chuckle to see yet another hapless situation I have gotten myself into, that would be fine with me.

To be fair, you have to admire a b’ar that can wrassle and dance at the same time without mashing toes or causing crashes. Clearly, the B’ar has learned a few things in his classes. Also, he’s musical. He is a good beginner, and good beginners who stick with it become good dancers.

The dance ends, and we step apart. We started the tanda late, so there is only one dance left. That’s a good thing, because I have a rule: No walking off the floor mid-tanda.

Also, I have a trick at the end of my sleeve: It’s my thumb.

When I was standing in line for my very first community dance, Deb Sclar gave me a tip: If a guy holds you too close, press your thumb into his tricep. Or bicep. Somewhere around there. At first I thought she said armpit, and I reported it that way in the blog. A few days later she approached me: Not the armpit! she said, wrinkling her nose. Sorry, Deb. I know you have more class than that.

I am not above attacking a man’s armpit if he’s holding me too close, but that’s not necessary in this case. When the next song begins, I take a nice, firm grip on his bicep. With my elbow locked at 90 degrees, that gives us about a foot of breathing room.

He tries his best to close the space, but I have muscles and backbone.

“Can you dance open?” I ask, my tone tending toward tart.

He replies in the tone of Leisure Suit Larry: I like to lead with my bod.

My Heart of Hearts erupts in a frenzy of giggles. My tartness cannot withstand such pure, open, outlandish intent.

I admire honesty, even in a B'ar--but no way is he besting me. Not with that line.

I smile brightly. “Some men like to learn to lead open and close so they can dance in the way the lady likes best,” I say brightly. I smile brightly some more.

Score! my Heart of Hearts shouts.

Then my Heart of Hearts settles down, and so does he, and we finish the tanda. I compliment his musicality (positive reinforcement of what he does well) and tell him I enjoyed the dance (positive reinforcement of desired behavior). The wrasslin’ match ends on cordial terms.

Later, when I see him trolling for tall women, I warn my tall friends about the liquor.


One Heart Wrassels a Rascal
Sunday, August 24, The Avalon

He was a short guy, sweet and sort of eager. I had seen him around. He moved like a guy who could dance, though I couldn’t say I’d ever actually seen him on the floor.

The Avalon is a friendly place. If you’re going to stretch your limits, this is a good place to do it. Even if it means breaking a rule to dance with a stranger.

Also, I was having a great night. When I am having a great night, I love tango! Why not share the love?

Perhaps that’s a poor choice of words.

He threw himself on me like a saddle, his arm the girth. I made myself big, he cinched the girth tighter. Then started the pelvic gyration.

Eek! My Heart of Hearts squealed. Help! Help!

My brain bolted for the barn. How else to explain this? I danced the whole, horrid tanda.

I resisted pretty hard but could not put any distance between us. I felt embarrassed and ashamed, even dirty, and hoped no one was looking. Yet I danced the whole, stupid, horrid pelvic tanda. Why?

I had options. I did not need to flop around like a rag doll; just a few days earlier, I proved I have muscles and backbone—and resourcefulness! I could use my thumb to push him off, as Deb Sclar taught me. I could stop dead in my tracks. Say something corrective in a bright, punchy way. Curse in his ear.

I have a rule: No walking off mid-tanda. But I had already broken one rule. Why not another?

I dunno.

Maybe I do know, I just hate to admit it: I’m not consistently good when I find myself in tight places. Resourcefulness is my strong suit, but it requires presence of mind, which in turn requires distance from the situation at hand. Without that, you’re sunk.

Once, after telling Stan how I cleverly extricated myself from a tight spot (the truth is, that spot got a lot tighter than I liked before I got out), I bragged, “I’ve been in lots of tight spots. I’m good at getting myself out of them.”

“Sounds like you’re good at getting yourself into them,” he said.

[Blech. I’m tired of thinking about this. I’m going to take a short break now and look at the photos in Sophia Loren’s biography, which I picked up as a joke for my dad’s birthday but forgot to take to his party. I remember once seeing her in an old movie called Houseboat. She was pretty.

My goodness, her pictures are sexy! I am in no mood for that! But the words are arresting…

Writing of Charlie Chaplin, she says, “The last time I saw him he had some gentle advice for me. ‘You have one failing you must overcome, one thing you must learn if you are to become a completely happy woman, maybe the most important lesson in living: you must learn to say no. You do not know how to say no, Sophia, and that is a serious deficiency. It was very difficult for me, too, but once I learned to say no, life became much easier.’ ”

Amen! says my Heart of Hearts.

And where were you last Sunday? I ask Charlie Chaplin.]

Returning to the question at hand—Why the whole horrid tanda?--my befuddled thinking yields a few possibilities:

He wasn’t a beginner. He knew what he was about. Beginner’s tricks only work on the clueless.

Also, I might have given him cause to believe I would enjoy such a dance. I was wearing jeans that ride a few inches below my waist, with a close-fitting t-shirt tucked in. I like this outfit because the jeans are a little tight in the waistband, which reminds me to dance with my hips, not my knees.

[To be honest, I like the look. I believe it walks up to the line of being sexy without crossing over, but maybe I am wrong. Maybe it does cross the line. When those jeans come out of the laundry, they are going back to Goodwill.]

Also, earlier in the evening I shared a silly moment with a couple of friends, and it put me in a mischievous mood, and when Donna played an Eric Clapton tune that I love, I danced with one of those friends in a way that was downright flirtatious. This could have given him the impression that I am open in that way to all comers.

[And here’s another reason not to dance with strangers. It is not only that you need to spend time observing them so that you have a good sense of what you are letting yourself in for; you also need to give them time to observe you, so they do not misread you.]

Also, I follow best with my face turned in, my forehead on the lead’s temple, and I am discovering that some men interpret that as a personal gesture.

So I reason in retrospect. My Heart of Hearts doesn’t buy it, but I have heard, as every woman has, the suggestion that a woman who chooses to dance a dance like tango has no room to complain about a man’s bad actions. Also, the suggestion that a woman who does not react immediately and vigorously to extricate herself from such a situation does not, in her heart of hearts, object. Also that coercion is not illegal; it is the woman’s job to resist to the extent that is necessary.

My Heart of Hearts doesn’t buy that wholesale, though My Inner Feminist wholly agrees that it's a woman's job, to object as vigorously and unmistakbly as she can.

There are many deeply personal reasons why a woman might be unable to bring herself to vigorously object to the extent that is necessary to extricate herself. In my case, the answer is banal:

I had no presence of mind.

I, who just five days earlier had successfully wrassled the B’ar, had not the presence of mind to use Deb Sclar’s thumb trick nor to follow every teacher’s advice to walk away from a lead who behaves badly.

Why did I have no presence of mind?

At first I was shocked. Everything changed so dramatically and so fast, my head spun. From nice guy to … spirogyropelvisman. I was unnerved. He was much stronger than me, and he was willing to use his strength. Once when I exhaled he cinched his arm so tight I couldn’t breathe. It hurt.

[Do you hear yourself? my Heart of Hearts scolds. Do you hear what you are saying?

Yes, dammit!]

Instead of galvanizing me to vigorous action, it only befuddled me further. I couldn't conceive what was happening, and so couldn't react.

Last summer David Hodgson taught a class in which the followers played a trick on the leads: We planted our feet and refused to take another step. It was great fun, and afterward David said: Remember this, ladies. A man treats you bad, that’s how you do it.

I didn’t forget that lesson, not completely. I mean, I remember it now. Why did I not remember it in the heat of the moment?

Perhaps I failed to feel the courage of my convictions. My mind went to “Eek! Help!” when what I needed was the fire of conviction. It wasn’t there for me to draw on readily, and I couldn’t muster it up in the moment. I find this very interesting. If I lack ready access to that fiery courage, does it mean my convictions are false?

My failings, not his, are the source of my shame.

The blessing of tango is that milonga tandas last for only three songs. His footwork was fast and unfamiliar, I was afraid I might turn an ankle or trip. So, after the lung crushing episode, I gave way and focused on following. I am good at making the best of a bad situation. I am good at survival.

I’m also good at taking care of myself.

The instant the tanda was over, I made a beeline for the door. I listened to Charlotte Church all the way home because she performs nothing that remotely resembles a tango. To stave of bad dreams, I fell asleep to the read-aloud of a silly, charming story set in Moose County, “400 miles north of everywhere”, which has surely never seen a milonga.

I fell asleep feeling dirty and ashamed and woke up the same way. “You know better,” my Heart of Hearts said, but I was unable to shake it.

During a practice session Monday afternoon, I told Stan why I ducked out early the previous night. I was trying to explain why I was dancing poorly, but I didn’t want to say it directly.

Why didn’t you come find me? he asked incredulously. I couldn’t stand to have you around me, I said.

In the entire 2-plus hours of practice, I had 30 successful seconds, when Stan told a joke.

“See, you’re not thinking,” he said as I laughed.

“Don’t think,” is the followers’ mantra. I have been thinking and overthinking this. I have thought about it long enough that the whole picture is ingrained: the experience itself, the feelings afterward, and the analysis. All of this serves a purpose. Finally, I have an answer to Why? that makes sense:

I was caught up in the moment. I failed to distance myself from my circumstances so that I could take reasonable action. This is a failing not of character but of discipline. Practice makes perfect. Next time I will do better.

[Who knew? Detachment is not only the path to enlightenment, but also to self-defense!]

* * *

This isn’t the first time tango has gotten under my skin. I know how to cure it: Hot baths, hard work, discipline and time. A week has passed, I’ve had a hard-working lesson with Grisha, forced myself to dance several tandas with old friends, and taken an unusual number of very hot baths.

Also, I’ve written this. Intellectualizing and stylizing experience is a balm.

Also, a girlfriend told me the guy always dances that way. It wasn’t my jeans or forehead or mischief!

A few hours ago, the annual Labor Day milonga started in the marble pavilion in Cheesman Park. It’s the most beautiful place in Denver to dance. I have a new skirt made of silk, light and floaty and modest. A favorite lead let me know he would be there early. I'm running late, but I’ll get there soon.