August Dance with Jug

Surely I cannot be the only hostess in the world who consistently has more young men than, or as many young men as, young women at her dances. Nevertheless, this seems to be an unusual occurrence elsewhere. And it is too bad for elsewhere for, as it happens, gentlemen are usually the leads and therefore the ones who really have to know the steps. Ladies just need a general idea and the willingness to read directional cues, like thoughtful lawnmowers. 

At any rate, our waltzing teacher was not at all nonplussed when, at 2:30 pm, I presented her with five young men and no women. (Two girls turned up about 10 minutes afterwards, and very glad was I to see them.) She simply gathered the boys up and led them down the floor in British Dance Council-approved fashion. After some time, she turned her attention to the ladies' auxiliary, and we meekly backed down the hall, also according to the strictures of the BDC. Eventually we were asked to form couples, and I could see my partner's fierce masculine intelligence ticking away. How happy was I not to be a lead; thinking while dancing is not my USP.  

For some reason Natural Turn--Closed Change--Reverse Turn--Closed Change is much more difficult done according to Ballroom than according to YouTube. However, practice makes perfect, and it is great fun to watch the boys dance up the wooden floor like the Jets in West Side Story. Meanwhile I am still slavishly grateful to have found a professional ballroom instructor. When she asked if we would like to learn the chassé and the whisk, I trembled but affirmed. 

After our hesitant beginning with the chassé and the whisk, we had a break. Break featured chocolate chip cookies and a plastic jug of blackcurrant squash. Having been caught plastic jug-stealing in the parish hall by my Novus Ordo Opposite Number, this month I decided it was time to buy my own, no excuses. Happily, Tesco was having a sale, so I got a decent one for about £4. 

A short discursion for potential hostesses: one factor in planning dance parties is calculating how few utensils you can decently provide. Having begun my parties in our well-stocked parish hall, I expected always to provide a proper tea-and-coffee set, with biscuits and cakes on porcelain plates and crisps (chips) in capacious bowls. However, when we moved to a bigger hall down the street, I discovered that I would have to bring my own tea-and-coffee set, plus coffee and tea making equipment, and this necessitated a car. My husband and I do not have a car, and although two or three of the guests do have cars, it seems a great pity to get them to drive out to our far-flung neighbourhood more than twice a year.

Fortunately, I discovered that the guests are not very interested in mid-afternoon tea-and-coffee after all. They also do not seem to feel that the use of paper cups for squash betrays the goal of shoring up Western Civilization. Thus, yesterday I was able to pack everything needed for the dance in my knapsack and my husband's wheelchair bag: notebook, pen, donation box, Bluetooth speaker, biscuit tin, squash, paper napkins, paper cups, marker (to write names on paper cups), and jug. 

But I am forgetting my skinny 4-foot-high cardboard box. This was my instructional poster, scrawled out by me on Saturday morning after my Shim Sham rehearsal. Sadly, one of our swing-dancing teachers is sick, so leading the swing component of the dance party fell to me. Like striking up conversations in Polish when you're not, this is an example of stretching your comfort zone, by the way. I highly recommend it for civilization-preserving activities. And, like dancing, the more often you stretch your comfort zone, the easier it gets. 

Anyway, I taped up my poster during the break, and at 3:50 pm I began a half-hour Shim Sham review. It was difficult to gauge how this was going, as I had my back towards everybody, but Benedict Ambrose assured me afterwards that there had been a very energetic and cheerful atmosphere. 

There followed the "Free Dance" period during which there was some dancing. However, there was as much or more sitting about silently or chatting with other guests or with the hosts, if we count Benedict Ambrose as a host, and perhaps we should. Free Dance, by the way, is an excellent opportunity for girls to practise sitting suffering in silence (or making desultory chitchat) while waiting to be asked to dance. I could write an entire and extremely unpopular blogpost on this topic. 

Summed up, my logic is this: if women constantly ask men to dance, men will not ask women to dance because they know they don't have to. And if they don't have to, they will never develop the courage necessary to ask women to dance. (Or, worse, they will stop going to dances altogether because sometimes a fellow just wants to rest, gosh darn it.) And if they don't develop the courage necessary to ask women to dance, they won't develop the easy charm helpful for asking women out for coffee, let alone asking us to marry them. And if men don't ask women to marry them, Western Civilization will tank. 

Update: Meanwhile, there is a number of other reasons why men don't ask women to dance. The music might be too fast for them, or they're uncertain of the steps, or they need to take a breather, or they've just been refused/criticized by other girls and are regrowing their courage, or all the women seem to be in deep conversations and they don't want to bother them. 

As I myself practise suffering in silence at big public swing-dances while waiting to be asked, I notice women of great talent--veterans of the Edinburgh swing-dance scene--rushing about to ask men to dance with them. I have also introduced male veterans to female friends and been aggrieved these men didn't ask the women to dance. Fortunately, this was not true of the last big public ceilidh dance I attended. Boomer and Gen-X men were out in full force, asking women of all generations to dance with them. They were delightful, and they made the ceilidh night a great success.  

Update: To be strictly honest, because I am not at all certain of being asked to dance at big public swing-dances, I don't often go to them. After public swing lessons I don't stay for socials unless I am with friends. There's a lesson for me as an organizer in that. 

As promised, "Ain't What You Do" sounded forth at one point, and I leapt before the poster to lead the Shim Sham anew. The mad lazy license of the "Free Dance" will always be tempered by the stern call of the Shim Sham from now on, so that all guests (and I) will become note perfect. How grateful they will be when, alone and palely loitering in some foreign dance hall, the crowd erupts into the Shim Sham and for 2 minutes and 35 seconds, they will be at one with it. The psychological boost they derive thereby may be a game changer. 

B.A. held court from his wheelchair, from which he had watched the dancing lessons when not reading the Spectator. The dance pro offered to teach him how to waltz using his wheelchair, but B.A. demurred.  

Anyway, although the company was small, the dance was great fun and also highly instructive from a skillset point of view. I am now looking forward to September's party and the return of those currently on holiday from Auld Reekie.