Ochos in the Snow

What Is She Doing?

Eleven Perfect Tango Steps, Part 2 and 3: Connecting Feet to Floor

Eleven Perfect Tango Steps, Part 2: Connecting Feet to Shoes to Floor

In my new shoes I stand.

And that’s all I can do. I cannot move. I cannot lift one foot; it won’t let go of the floor. They—my feet—are waging a battle, pressing into the floor for all they are worth. Each foot knows its job, to keep the rest of the body aloft. Each is determined to succeed this time. It would help if they were working in concert. The left foot doesn’t seem to know what the right one is doing. Both see the floor as their enemy. And the shoes! My feet react like puppies the first time in a leash. As I waver and list and collapse into the chair, it occurs to me that tango begins here: connecting feet to shoes to floor.


Eleven Perfect Tango Steps, Part 3: Introducing Feet to Shoes

Puppies must be broken to the leash. Sit them down in the living room, clip it to their collar, and they’ll fight it, roll and chase and bite and kick and shake the life out of it.

If you want your puppy to love the leash, take it for lots of walks. First, make the promise: Put on your coat, open the door. Using your happy voice, say to your puppy, “Want to go for a walk?” The puppy has no idea what your words mean, but the coat and the door and the voice say it all: Whatever it is, he wants it. He barely notices the string you attach. It’s a small price to pay for escape from the daily routine; a small price to pay for the chance, the unlikely but ever-present chance, of slipping the collar for three or four minutes of glorious, untrammeled freedom!

Soon you won’t need the door or the coat or the voice. Soon your puppy will bring the leash to you.

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.

Man on the Wall Teaches Me Tango

The Man on the Wall teaches me tango. When I practice backward ochos, hands sliding lightly along his shoulders, he teaches me to make a full pivot. I tend to stop short of 180 degrees without even knowing. It took The Man on the Wall to show me. With every incomplete pivot I move a few inches away from him. After three or four ochos I am at arm’s length and must stop what I’m doing to step back into line.

The rhythm of the ocho is hypnotic. Once I am into it I don’t want to stop.

TeacherTom says ladies are like Energizer Bunnies, once we start ochos you can’t get us to stop. He says this to make the men understand that they had better be ready to put on the brakes. It should be enough to simply stop leading the step, but when ladies are off in their own ocho world, extraordinary measures apply.

When I screw up the ochos, The Man on the Wall leaves it to me to fix it. A dance partner wouldn’t do that. As the distance between us opened, a dance partner would step forward to move with me, or he would tug on my arms to bring me back to him. The Man on the Wall does not compensate, he does not correct. He allows me to experience the consequences of my actions, then waits while I figure things out.

I love him for this.

Friends

Happy New Year, Michigan. I miss you.

The Better Way to Bring in the New Year

They say to be careful about what you’re doing as the year turns over because, whatever it is, you’ll be doing it often throughout the year.

I hope so. I was snuggled into a deep, soft sofa, champagne and shrimp near at hand, my stomach aching from laughter at my new favorite comedian, Eddie Izzard. At the other end of the couch, Melinda roared. The woman has admirable gusto, which gusts more strongly as the evening goes on.

Louie, leaning heavily against me, complained in a snorting way; his partner glared. Yoda refuses to beg; she wills you to give her that last bit of cookie. Melinda calls her the Old Lady; she calls Louie the Lover. She tosses them each a bit of something. They make disgusting pug noises as they snort it down.

What about All Night New Year's Eve milonga and the midnight kiss that I had fretted over for two days?

Hard to kiss at midnight when the milonga doesn’t start until 1:30 a.m. (Should have checked into that sooner.) No problem. New Year’s Eve comes around every year, and it always ends at midnight. Patience is a virtue.

At 12:03 Melinda and I notice the time, toast to girlfriends. By 1:37, Melinda is snoring. I send her off to bed, find my way to the guest room. As the All Night New Year’s Eve extravaganza begins, I drift off to the snoring and snorting of these three friends.

What is the better way to bring in the New Year—with friends or a kiss? There’s more to life than tango.