My Two Left Feet

publication date: Sep 1, 2008

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author/source: Shannon Alderman / STAFF

By Shannon Alderman / STAFF

MY TWO LEFT FEET: The Beacon’s Shannon Alderman heads to the dance floor at Daza Dance Studios to see if anyone can help rid her of a lifetime of bad dance moves.


My style of dancing looks something akin to what Elaine did on Seinfeld with a bit more aerobic action. My repertoire includes dances with names like the Lawnmower, the African Anteater, the YMCA, the Moonwalk and the Egyptian. I have also been known to attempt a version of the robot on occasion, albeit poorly. While I do have dancing standards, including a passion to rid the world of the Electric Slide, most of my dance inspiration comes from the likes of MC Hammer and from a hodge-podge of 20th century films. I might not be good at it but in the words of Sarah Jessica Parker in the film Girls Just Want to Have Fun, “I love to dance.” I really do.

I confess I have had so many daydreams of dancing derring-do that when an opportunity presented itself for an honest to goodness dance lesson, I jumped at the opportunity with great fervor. Perhaps, I would finally turn my daydream into a reality at Daza Dance Studios.

Dance Redemption?
My parental units are not to blame for my dancing failures. They sent me to dance classes when I was four. I liked the pink outfit, and the attention I received on stage. I just had a problem following the rules. I also didn’t like basking in my best friend’s shadow. Jennifer was a natural dancer even at the early age of 4. Graceful. Long. Incredible. She danced until college and probably could be teaching or performing dance now.

Instead, she turned her talents toward fine art and family where she currently excels at both. I called my dancing phone-a-friend on my way to the dance studio and I told her about my mild set of nerves. “Sometimes daydreams are better than the real thing, Jennifer,” I said. “But this is dance redemption,” she replied and I couldn’t help but think of Romy and Michelle at their high school reunion basking in a dance hall glow. The daydream was cut short by a horn honk. Nothing like Atlanta traffic to kill a buzz.

The Girl With Two Left Feet
My boyfriend and I arrived at the studio at five minutes to eight for our free one hour, group dance lesson. As I crossed the threshold, I had delusions of dance grandeur, a five-minute Rags to Riches daydream where I, the dance pauper, would ascend to Ginger Rogers heights. Antonio Daza and Liz Chester, the owners, awoke me during a crucial, imaginative spin. We said our hellos. “Two left feet? No problem,” Antonio said. “Liz couldn’t even walk when we first met,” he joked. My boyfriend Hunt paid his $15 entry fee for the dance party that followed the lesson. We collected our two drink tickets each and I headed straight for the bar.

Liquid Courage?
A bit of liquid courage, perhaps. No such luck. “The bar doesn’t open until the party begins at nine,” the bartender replied. I had no choice but to head to the hardwoods where we were split into two groups: leaders and followers. My natural inclination as an extrovert and writer was to go to the leader’s side, but in dance, men lead and women follow.

I was contented to oblige. I looked longingly at my boyfriend on the far end of the room. What have I gotten us into, I thought. The instructor, Hannah Cole, introduced herself and the dance moves we would learn in an hour. She was an attractive, lively and spirited woman with a dance resume likely to inspire if you happen to be familiar with the ballroom world. Blackpool wouldn’t have meant anything to me had it not been for the film Shall We Dance. Jennifer Lopez’s character competed there in fiction but in real life, Hannah danced at this Super Bowl of Ballroom dancing events. If anyone could teach me to dance, it was her.

A Dancer Who Can’t Carry a Tune
I still had my doubts because I am the sort of person in an aerobics class likely to slip off the step or garner the attention of an instructor even when I hide sheepishly in the back room. I am like Waldo in Neon when it comes to learning steps and I lack rhythm when I have to follow someone else’s tune. I lose the tune. So, I reasoned with myself and perhaps the gods of the dance world that I would try and if Hannah Cole can teach me even a part of one dance and I can manage to stand and not fall, I will pay for a dance lesson at Daza Dance in the future.

We didn’t waste any time. The 40-plus dancers learned portions of different ballroom routines including the Foxtrot and Liz Chester’s favorite, the Jitterbug. Earlier in the day, Liz told me that the instructors at this studio had a way of helping neophyte dancers develop a style. I liked swing and the lively, playful nature of the dance. Hannah demonstrated slowly, first alone and then with a partner. We did the moves without music at first and then we performed with a variety of partners. At the end of an hour, I was pleasantly surprised.

For most of the lesson, I felt awkward and adolescent. I remember feeling that way the first time I rode a bike and that first time I had lunch alone in a school cafeteria. I suppose learning something new at any age conjures up a mild amount of fear. I stepped on most of my partners’ toes and my cheeks glowed red each time they grabbed my hands, sweaty and clammy even in the cool air.

My new partners didn’t seem to mind, but my hands did until they held Hunt’s hands and then the sweat seemed to subside. Hannah was patient. Like a mother watching over her dancing ducklings, she had us practice solely before sending us out on our own. And even though I wasn’t a shadow of the girl I was in my daydreams, there was something so palatable being on a real dance floor. For the first time in my life, I was able to follow and I enjoyed most of my seconds there.

The dance lesson was over and the dance party began promptly at nine. I headed for the bar. Sipping a glass of wine, Hunt and I watched the dancers twirl past and I recognized all sorts of characters I could identify from the films of my youth. You had your cool cats from Grease. The awkward types, like Long Duck Dong and his tall American girl from Sixteen Candles and the Dirty Dancing showoffs who did the Lift. Okay, they didn’t really do the Lift but you get the vibe.

The woman with the jerky neck and ballroom grimace, she was a serious, Shall We Dance, sort. She never smiled even though I tried Jedi Mind tricking her into one. This Jedi failed. As for Hunt and I, he grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor. My hand was dry as he twirled me round and round. Girls like to twirl I always say. We were Footloose and fancy-free as we regressed back to our funky freestyle ways forgetting most of the steps we had learned an hour earlier.

Who knows if he and I will ever have a real life, sea parting dance moment, but perhaps another dance lesson at Daza will get us dancing one step closer to the dream. Truthfully, I don’t think he and I really care because we dance to our own steps the way my father has always taught me to do in life and in dance. He has reiterated Thoreau's words to me most of my life and they rang true this night. “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”

Hunt and I danced to a different beat and it was good.