The votes came in, and, unsurprisingly, the total was around 20 for to 3 against. A few genuinely believed I might be able to persevere and make something of it, most just wanted me to write another self-deprecating report so they could laugh at me. Nevertheless, I was gratified by their interest, and was prepared to honour my commitment. The experience would be just another installment in my continuing program of shock therapy to combat introversion. The writing experience would be valuable, but one of these days I really must write about something that I'm good at.
It was tough. All Saturday I dreaded going. I very nearly didn't. It must be understood that I wasn't exaggerating in my description last time. I was bad. It would be harder to disguise this time. Not that I was exactly inconspicuous last time.
I arrived late, delaying the inevitable. They'd started their warm-ups. I assumed a place near the door and tried to act inconspicuous. I failed. There were even more people there this time. The pink tank top duo from the previous week were conspicuously absent. Jørgen was off at some motorbike course learning new ways to not kill himself. The instructor seemed surprised but pleased that I had returned.
I've previously described how uncoordinated I am, but now I've managed to analyse this further. It seems that I can cope with certain acts requiring a certain type of coordination, like fielding in indoor cricket which I'm actually not bad at. This requires reacting to a single external stimulus: the movement of a ball. All I need to do is move the required the parts of my body in such a way as to get to the ball, stop it, and preferably grab it and do something useful with it. Through long practice reacting to moving projectiles I've managed to make this second nature. However, learning these dance moves is a completely different, er, ball game. Bad metaphor - there are no balls involved, although I have my theories about the possible repercussions of some of those leg-splitting moves.
Here's how it works, or to be more accurate, doesn't. The instructor, having a complete mastery of every muscle within his lithe frame, demonstrates a series of fluid movements that make him seem like one with the music. Furthermore, each move has subtle physical nuances that demonstrate his individual creative expression as well as further reinforcing the utter command he has over his body. I watch this, though not with the same interest as some of my female classmates. The next step is for me to copy these movements. I try. I watch him in the mirror and try to copy exactly what I see. The result is not what I would have hoped. It's sort of like Picasso and Warhol got totally wasted one night and started playing around with a film of the instructor doing the moves. Pablo blows up each frame of this film, cuts the instructor's body into lots of pieces and rearranges them at random. While Pablo goes up to the 7-11 for some Doritos, Andy changes the timing by removing some frames and repeating others for a jerky, stop-start effect. He even adds a few totally unrelated extra frames here and there to create something of a masterpiece of physical absurdity, and thus a reasonable approximation of how I appeared during this class.
I finally decided that it wasn't going to work when we were asked to do a "body roll" followed by a 180 degree turn and all manner of hand and foot movements. I was a mess. I couldn't get any one of the individual moves right, let alone the whole damn thing. I despaired of my ineptitude but I had to face it: I just wasn't cut out for funk dancing. It wasn't just that I couldn't do it - if I were to go again I'd just be dragging the class back. This would be my last funk dancing class.
Maybe one day I'll get my coordination up to scratch and be able make a new attempt. I'm trying to practise wherever I can. I get the ball just that bit more theatrically now in cricket. (Can't go too far here; I risk getting beaten up and/or having my sexual preferences challenged). Sometimes I dance a little in my room to mp3s or even breakfast radio. I even dance in other parts of the house. The other day I caught myself having a bit of a boogie while cleaning the kitchen floor. Obviously, a long dormant seed has germinated. Who knows what shall bloom with time? In the meantime, watch for me working on that whole rhythm thing at a club near you. Anyone know any with cages hanging from the ceiling?
Now, I really must do something about my hair...
©Copyright Paul Bird 2001