In my ongoing quest for a suitable career, yet another option is forever eliminated

| | Comments (6)

I've recently come to realize that rhythm isn't necessarily part of a person's birthright. Not even for those of us who hail from Africa.

Although I've had my suspicions about being rhythmically challenged for a long time (ever since high school when I was the only one to be barred from attending the open school dances, to be exact. Okay, so that was probably a BIG hint, right there, but never mind! ), I stubbornly clung to the belief that humans, like dogs, can be taught to do virtually anything.

So on the day that GQ - a stage name meaning Good Quality and NOT the fashion glossy unread by straight men the world over unless they really are metrosexual and/or a little desperate - danced his swaggering way from the Arthur Murray dance studio into my motionless life, it didn't take him too long to convince me that he could very well transform me into the next Ginger Rogers.

"I can teach anyone!" he smoothly covered my weak protests.

"Besides, doll! You already have the red hair!" he gushed.

I should have known better then, but somehow, after all these years of being in the United States, an unhealthy amount of the American self-belief that you can do ANYTHING if you're willing to try and/or pay for a really good teacher, had already rubbed off on me too.

After spending a sleepless night fantasizing about how I was going to strut my stuff in the starring role of a passionate tango opposite a Latino hunk, I showed up at the studio for my complimentary first lesson.

As I watched the twirling couples on the dance floor, I shook the recurring images of the hilarious Australian film "Ballroom" from my head and assured myself that the exercise would be good for me.

Upon seeing me, GQ performed a lavish pirouette.

"I have more left feet than the number of tentacles on an octopus!" I forewarned as he grabbed me by the hand.

The music must have been too loud, because he merely took one disapproving glance at my trusty Nikes and ordered his assistant to go and get me a pair of ... he literally recoiled when I whispered "Size 11. Wide"... stilettos.

Yeah, so I have gigantic feet. Bite me. Besides, you know what they say: Large feet means large... brains?

Once I finally squished my feet into a pair of 9 and a halfs (it's the best the assistant could do, she assured me as she tried to refrain from openly gawking at my freakishly large, flat feet), I shuffled over to the dance floor.

"But I can hardly WALK in them!" I lamented at five inches above floor level while desperately flailing my arms about in a shaky attempt to keep my balance.

"It doesn't matter, honey, 'cause you ain't gonna walk!" GQ said with relish as he flashed me his mile-wide grin.

It is possibly due to the trauma that followed, but I can hardly remember what happened next. One moment my body parts were being contorted into surreal shapes and I was displaying about the same amount of grace as an ox on speed.

The next minute I was truly airborne.

I just remember GQ's voice throughout the blur of sight, sound and pain going: "FEEL the music, Baby! Just FEEL it! And ONE, and TWO, and THREEEEE and LIFT and AraBESque..!"

I don't think I will ever forget the one rule of Physics that more or less states that a body in motion is bound to keep on moving. (Only until it collides with a dancehall mirror, of course. Then it can stop very abruptly indeed.)

Following its crash landing, said body remained miraculously unscathed.

But the emotional scars... Oh, those still run infinitely deep.

Whenever I hear an upbeat song on the radio and I am tempted to start tapping my foot, I can still hear GQ's voice as he told the assistant: "Man, that white girl wasn't kidding. She REALLY can't dance. I've never seen anything like it."

"And not to mention those FEET..."

6 Comments

Cherryflava said:

Great story.....I'm sure that we have found the winner of the 2005 Best writing of a South African blog....which starts on Monday...hint, hint Red readers.

martha said:

but your poor toes - how did they survive the shoes?

Beth said:

Oh. My. God.

I can so relate to this story. My daughter and I both have size 11 feet, and both my boys are in a size 15. My daddy always said "Big feet are a sign of intelligence." He should know. He speaks from the wisdom of a size 14.

And I can't dance either. Nope. Not a bit. Not even at my wedding.

deeleea said:

deeleea and dancing are mutually exclusive too...

But I seem not to be able to help myself when I get excited about something...

It isn't pretty.

sporty said:

If I even attempt to do the running man, I'd end up in the hospital. I totally suck at dancing.

Bookstore Diva said:

Even though I am a full fleged Diva. I have caught sight of my phat ass shaking & gyrating in front those fun house mirrors at the dance club. And it ain't pretty. It is enough to make you head straight to the bar and park that ass on a bar stool for the rest of the night. And just because people are of African descent, doesn't mean that they all can dance. I've seen it. Again it's not pretty.

Leave a comment




















about
is a South African girl living in South Africa. That doesn't sound very original, we know, but you might find it remotely interesting when you learn that she has only recently returned to South Africa for the first time after a nine year, one month and two week (non-stop!) stint in the United States where she accidentally became an outlawed alien (also known, especially in immigration circles, as an 'illegal immigrant.' We prefer the term 'outlawed alien' ourselves). During her reversed exile from her homeland, she kept herself occupied by winning this website (but only after shamelessly bribing the judges) and thus being unleashed on the web where she slowly, leisurely became the World's Laziest Blogger; by being a nanny and by attending sci-fi conventions in search of other aliens. In the US, she also made her sailing debut, her international acting debut, tried and failed to learn the piano, and never learned to cook. She is hopelessly addicted to coffee, dogs (especially Labrador Retrievers), how-to books (with a particular fondness for her copy of the Time/Life A - Z Medical Encyclopedia), and she tends to grossly overuse parentheses (we're not kidding) during her attempts at writing, which you may - if you really have masochistic tendencies - subject yourself to by reading the words to the right of this column. If you REALLY and truly STILL want to know more, you can read her C.V. here.
Or you can stalk her send her some love via e-mail at: redsaid[AT]gmail[DOT]com

The Wish List (Because yes, she really does need more how-to books. Honestly!)

online


comments
  • Bookstore Diva : Even though I am a full fleged Diva. I have caught sight of my phat ass shaking & gyrating in front ... [go]
  • sporty : If I even attempt to do the running man, I'd end up in the hospital. I totally suck at dancing.... [go]
  • deeleea : deeleea and dancing are mutually exclusive too... But I seem not to be able to help myself when I g... [go]
  • Beth : Oh. My. God. I can so relate to this story. My daughter and I both have size 11 feet, and both my ... [go]
  • martha : but your poor toes - how did they survive the shoes?... [go]
  • Cherryflava : Great story.....I'm sure that we have found the winner of the 2005 Best writing of a South African ... [go]
top commenters
archives
archive by category

links
credits
winner of
I won this blog!

winner of best writing
sablog2005-winnerbut.gif

retro dots skin designed with care by


liberty belle skin designed with care by


hosted with love by
Blogomania

script assistance by
scriptygoddess
MT Blacklist


one reader and counting... by




Locations of visitors to this page
with these rings, I thee join


Blog Baltimore




Next
Random
List
Join



South Africa's Top Sites
South African Blog Top Sites

I shmaak SA Blogs, sorted with Amatomu.com

Afrigator

Geolocalisation des internautes

Copyright belongs to the author (ha ha! She called herself an author!) of this website.