I have fallen ass over teakettle in love . . . with tango.
And, no, I do not feel that this qualifies as infidelity on my part. There are those—who admittedly will never be privy to this little exculpatory exercise—who have accused me of ugly motives and, while I feel the need to defend myself here, I must say I find them crass and wanting imagination.
So what if I dance four nights a week and wish it were more? So what if I come home at one in the morning with busted feet? I am happy. I am assertive in ways I never knew to be, acquiescent in others, and—goddamnit—I'm happy. For the first time in my life, I feel like I have done something right. No matter what decisions I have made, what time I have wasted, what bruises I have borne, I have succeeded at finding this.
Tango for me is one part performance, one part meditation, one part . . . je ne sais quoi. And I needed a little je ne sais quoi in my life, let's face it; I did.
So, to those who would begrudge me this infatuation: desist. No, I am not eloping with my teacher. I am an adult and I know perfectly well how to resist the temptations of transference; I can tango with a fifty-year-old master dancer without losing my panties or my cool. No, I am not cheating on my boyfriend (nor do I intend to). Yes, I am abandoning him to his own devices on these evenings out, but he is a big boy and ought to stretch the legs of his own interests before they wither in atrophy. I have asked him (read: begged him) to come along on this lark and he has declined. If anyone is rejecting the other, it is he. So I will not say no to myself. I will not shut up about molinetes and volcadas. I will not stop practicing ochos at the LaserJet. I simply will not, so back off.
He visto mi allegría y la voy a lograr.
And, no, I do not feel that this qualifies as infidelity on my part. There are those—who admittedly will never be privy to this little exculpatory exercise—who have accused me of ugly motives and, while I feel the need to defend myself here, I must say I find them crass and wanting imagination.
So what if I dance four nights a week and wish it were more? So what if I come home at one in the morning with busted feet? I am happy. I am assertive in ways I never knew to be, acquiescent in others, and—goddamnit—I'm happy. For the first time in my life, I feel like I have done something right. No matter what decisions I have made, what time I have wasted, what bruises I have borne, I have succeeded at finding this.
Tango for me is one part performance, one part meditation, one part . . . je ne sais quoi. And I needed a little je ne sais quoi in my life, let's face it; I did.
So, to those who would begrudge me this infatuation: desist. No, I am not eloping with my teacher. I am an adult and I know perfectly well how to resist the temptations of transference; I can tango with a fifty-year-old master dancer without losing my panties or my cool. No, I am not cheating on my boyfriend (nor do I intend to). Yes, I am abandoning him to his own devices on these evenings out, but he is a big boy and ought to stretch the legs of his own interests before they wither in atrophy. I have asked him (read: begged him) to come along on this lark and he has declined. If anyone is rejecting the other, it is he. So I will not say no to myself. I will not shut up about molinetes and volcadas. I will not stop practicing ochos at the LaserJet. I simply will not, so back off.
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