Before leaving her house she spent two hours preparing: makeup enough to make an artist blush--even midnight blue eyeshadow of all things--along with a bouncy black and white skirt, a purple shirt and a black ruffly overlay of a blouse for dramatic loveliness, and a gorgeously large purple flower for on the side of her pinned down and up curls. Velvet and satin, black heels would be perfect for the fox-trot, she thought to herself, and then whisked away out the door after grabbing them.
Music was playing, pleasantly filling up the space between the dancers. She could feel the nervous energy, but did not succumb to it--yet. After practicing with non-partner after non-partner, courage and even the ever-elusive confidence took shelter in her heart. Dancing electrifies and enlivens this wounded warrior queen. She is ready.
But then, her name is called for next up and mistakes begin to be the norm. Stepped upon toes of the darling sweetheart brave soul who didn't refuse when I asked him to test with me twenty minutes before my test, immediate nervous sweat response which is highly unattractive, and the giggles (because I get all smarty pants when I'm nervous) set in hard and fast. It was near immediate after the instructor called. And before catching even one good breath, he called for the test. And I couldn't breathe to save my life.
Red and ready to run, I went in with faux confidence--remembering to look away from my partner as if he weren't pushing me around the floor in an elegantly physical adventure.
And I did it. I danced the fox-trot on the ballroom floor in a way that resembled what I had imagined myself doing. It was pure magic.
Source: twowritingteachers.wordpress.com via The Purple on Pinterest
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