The instructors are progressing into tricky territory. Now that most heads have the dance's basic "rock step" down, they expect us to get fancy. With a hand from an experienced partner who is clearly uncomfortable with my sweaty meat hook clawing at her shoulder blade, I manage to lead through a side pass and an inside turn. In a few weeks, I could feasibly be executing the Texas Tommy, which I understand is the Triple Lindy of Lindy Hop.
Meanwhile, I'm having a hell of a time surrendering my leadership impulses. Why do I have to let some bozo in a Johnny Cupcakes T-shirt maneuver me around when I've got this whole "rock step" thing down cold? We're supposed to use the rock step as a foundation, then slowly add more complicated moves like turns and pass-bys. But the "leaders" I keep getting paired with can't get past the whole left-foot, right-foot weight shift. Methinks the aforementioned sweaty-meat-hooked gentlemen didn't hear Hibarger earlier when he told us, "Leading someone is like playing an instrument. In one hour, you can learn the equivalent to three chords that you can play on guitar."
I'm no Isadora Duncan, but I can count to six, and I can take a quick step back with my right foot, land on my left, and then step again to the right, to the left. Seriously, that's it — that's the bare bones of Lindy Hop. And yet, because my "leader" doesn't get it, we can't progress beyond awkwardly counting aloud, collectively gearing ourselves up to, ready? Step back, step right, step left. Step back, step right, step left. Step back, step — shit! I messed up. Okay, let's start again. Step back, step right . . .
My inner Gloria Steinem can't help but wonder if the disintegration of partners ballroom dance coincided with the launch of women's lib, and perhaps rightfully so. Women were tired of being pushed around in the kitchen and in the workplace — why should they also have to allow themselves to be pushed around on the damn dance floor? Especially considering our progress is hindered when the XY ham-fisted monkeys can't keep up.
I think I get it, but the booze is wearing off and my six-step could use an eight-ball. Still, I'm grinding. A dozen or so ringers show up for the dimly lit acrobatic action that goes down after Lindy Hop 101, and some are slumming with the beginner class, which is not a bad thing. Whereas basketball and boxing are awesome to play with uncoordinated dingbats, swinging is like tennis, in that less-skilled participants have more fun than their seasoned partners. While this shindig goes to midnight — or even 1 am if Hibarger feels frisky — I'm expecting to get run off the dance floor any minute by the distinguished amateurs and pros who are filing in. Orange pants or not, I can't hang alongside homeboy with the purple pimp hat and matching Iceberg Slim get-up.
