“Holy crap, you seem to have this natural sway to your hips.”
If I had a nickel.
Yes, I do. I don’t know what it is, I don’t know where it comes from, and I can’t control it. It’s just there. People tell me they recognize me by the way I walk. I have no idea what that means.
We have been practicing walking in dance class.
Yes, walking. That thing where you put one foot in front of the other and the rest of you follows.
I keep comparing the farruca to how I imagine military ballet. Staccato. Proud mourning. Homesickness. Tense containment at the verge of insanity. Anger and atonement. I do not relate to these things, I am them.
Except, apparently, my hips refuse to comply. I am also told that my epaulement is too graceful for this choreography, and that I should keep it tougher. We watch the video of our practice. Some of my motions are incomplete. My posture still sucks balls. The llamada and chaflán look very much OK, though. But, mother of God,
I. Am. Soft.
Too soft and too gentle for this dance. I have been called strict, and tough. Also, magnificent, intoxicating, pure evil and a tease, but that is neither here nor there. Too graceful? I have the subtlety of a freight train. Have I been hiding behind my yang all this time? I keep waiting for the camera to lie, like Lucille.
I have a thick rubber band wrapped around my hips to keep them in place, and my hair pulled back. This disciplinarian business is really amusing, and I find it even more hilarious that it doesn’t seem to work.
On my way home, a ladybug lands on my shirt. I let it climb onto my forefinger (index is such an ugly word) and carry it with me through one of the busiest streets, straight to the main square. I must look like a demented Marie Antoinette, my arm up in the air like there should be some invisible nobleman eye candy hanging off it, flamenco elbows, insubordinate hips and all, among the noon trains and the smell of summer in the air. Only those who looked carefully could see the tiny creature that hitched a ride with me, if only for a few minutes in the crowd. Trying to keep track of my marbles, I forgot to count her dots.