I have very little natural rhythm.
It becomes painfully apparent on Sunday mornings in church, when the band leader asks everyone to clap along. I joyfully jump in, but just up until the point when I have to sing, too, because it’s then that my brain immediately implodes.
Sing on key? Clap on beat? Nope. Can’t do both.
That never stopped me, though, from dance. From ballet, jazz and tap lessons in elementary school to hip-hop classes in middle school (of which the photos shall remain forever hidden), I enjoyed the social aspect as much as the art.
I was never angling to be a great dancer — I would have settled for good, or on the beat, or even the ability to discern my left from my right 90 percent of the time. But it was fun.
Once dancing became a pastime that required a partner, I began to shy away.
Which is how I found myself at a house concert several weeks ago, trying desperately to look busy and hide behind several people as a musician asked for volunteers to square dance as part of the band’s encore.
It’s also how I discovered that, at a small house concert, if you make a fuss about refusing to participate in a square dance encore, that musician will find you after the show, set your belongings aside and force you to dance with him in an effort to prove that dancing is not that scary after all.
I’d argue differently, but I’ll give the dance enthusiasts this: Every time I step out onto the floor — or choose to rock out in my living room — I have a great time.
Several years ago while visiting my sister in South Carolina, we spent a night at a country-western bar complete with a mechanical bull, medium-sized dance floor and live band. Most of the couples there were middle-aged, gliding around the floor as if moved by something other than themselves, in perfect rhythm and motion.
It was intimidating, as were the requests from my sister’s friends encouraging me to learn the two-step and the Carolina shag. But after several minutes of hemming and hawing and hurried lessons, I allowed myself to be led onto the dance floor, shuffling my feet and praying I’d hold on when my partner spun me into a hurricane.
The line dances were easier to handle — less chance of stepping on toes — and by the end of the night, I knew I wanted to return.
Now, 600 miles north, the country-western bars are fewer in number. Aside from a single shag dance a few summers ago at a wedding and my ill-fated house-concert swing-dance lesson, I’ve mostly stuck to Zumba classes.
Until, that is, a few months ago, when I met a second person who knows the two-step — and, perhaps more importantly, loves the two step. We have loose plans to go dancing this spring or summer, although we’re still looking for the best spot near York. (Suggestions are welcome, if you’re in the know.)
I might require a hurried refresher in advance, and I know I’ll try to spin the wrong way at least twice, no matter how talented my partner might be. I’ll get distracted and lose the beat, tripping over my lack of rhythm or clunky feet.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about dancing since my first recital in kindergarten, it’s this: You don’t have to be good at something to enjoy it. You just have to embrace the music.
Sarah Chain is an avid reader and book lover living and working in downtown York.
