I never cease to feel a sense of satisfaction when I expose someone to the West Coast Swing world for the first time and watch as their initial social presumptions are stripped away and replaced with newfound bewildered interest.
It irritates me just a little when they tug at my sleeve and whisper in my ear, “
Wow, look at that huge / unattractive / dorky / old person!” Only a little. In a moment things will change.
Ssshhh. “Just watch,” I tell them.
When the music starts and they begin to move, you forget.
Forget that they are the three-hundred-pound individual that just put on their tiny dance shoes. There they are, gliding across the floor with grace and fluidity that could rival a modern-day Fred Astaire.
Can you still recall that they are the sixty-something year old woman who just put her sparkly shawl and matching handbag onto a chair before stepping onto the crowded dance floor? She’ll make you wish you were rocking out to the Ne-Yo song right there next to her.
Maybe you brushed past the eight-year-old boy in the hallway without giving him a second glance (except wonder where his mother is); but there he is on the edge of the floor with a woman nearly half again his height, dancing like he is the best *
man* on earth
You forget that the most socially awkward guy in the whole room can’t hold a conversation with a girl to save his life, because when he takes her hand and speaks that silent but expressive language of dance it isn’t important who he can or cannot talk with.
You forget, because on the dance floor it doesn’t matter anymore. Watching them dance will erase any misconception you ever may have had. They will captivate you, fascinate you, and leave you wanting more.
Being how if they can do it, so can you.
Problem. Currently my monthly gas bill to get to work and back is costing me more than my monthly car payment and insurance COMBINED. 