Better.
I was feeling discouraged as of Thursday night; I forced myself to go dancing Friday.
The evening began with me catching my heel on my pants and nearly toppling both myself and my partner, and proceeded from there for everal hours, with a lot of sitting interrupted by frustrating tandas. I anticipated, I second-guessed, and once when I messed up I tried to change weight to correct. Not my finest hour(s). I went home upset, aching, and worried, and fell asleep wondering what the matter was.
On Saturday I got up and spent the morning listening to techno music, working on a short story, and cleaning the first few layers of clean laundry off the blob in my living room that might once have been a couch, and heavily debated not going to the milonga. There's a red circle on my leg where my stiletto pierced my pants, and all day I cast accusing glances at that little stamp of my inadequacy and wondered if it was worth it to go again.
Out of stubbornness more than anything, I went to the milonga - skirt and all. It's not like I was planning to quit tango, and if I was going to suck for the next X then I shouldn't wait for it to be X+1. (Math is my friend.)
When I walked into the milonga the music was playing, and it was one of my absolute favorites; the couples on the dance floor were moving in time, as if choreographed; the lights were low. Across the floor a woman sank into a low boleo, her silver shoe glittering.
I danced a lot, and it was much better, but that hardly matters. I hadn't realized until last night how much tango has become a part of my life, and that just being at a milonga is often enough.
It was encouraging.
The evening began with me catching my heel on my pants and nearly toppling both myself and my partner, and proceeded from there for everal hours, with a lot of sitting interrupted by frustrating tandas. I anticipated, I second-guessed, and once when I messed up I tried to change weight to correct. Not my finest hour(s). I went home upset, aching, and worried, and fell asleep wondering what the matter was.
On Saturday I got up and spent the morning listening to techno music, working on a short story, and cleaning the first few layers of clean laundry off the blob in my living room that might once have been a couch, and heavily debated not going to the milonga. There's a red circle on my leg where my stiletto pierced my pants, and all day I cast accusing glances at that little stamp of my inadequacy and wondered if it was worth it to go again.
Out of stubbornness more than anything, I went to the milonga - skirt and all. It's not like I was planning to quit tango, and if I was going to suck for the next X then I shouldn't wait for it to be X+1. (Math is my friend.)
When I walked into the milonga the music was playing, and it was one of my absolute favorites; the couples on the dance floor were moving in time, as if choreographed; the lights were low. Across the floor a woman sank into a low boleo, her silver shoe glittering.
I danced a lot, and it was much better, but that hardly matters. I hadn't realized until last night how much tango has become a part of my life, and that just being at a milonga is often enough.
It was encouraging.
2 comments:
Good for you for not letting the setbacks grind you down. I confess that the preceding week I was feeling pretty discouraged myself, but last Friday's calss really perked me up. I finally felt we were getting somewhere and that I wasn't as rubbish or lacking in potential as I had felt the week before.
It's the enjoyment that's the main thing. If you enjoy something you are more likely to work at it and improve because you want to be better for the joy of being able to do something properly. And I tend to think that that's the best way to learn.
Any little bit of progress is amazing, isn't it? This dance is so brutal. And I love it.
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