Frustration is an integral part of dance class. Sometimes, you wish you were more flexible. Sometimes, you wish you were more graceful. And sometimes, you wish this bloody choreography would just go away and never come back ever because it sucks and I hate it, AAAAARGH!
Yesterday’s jazz clas was special. It was the last one in the current six-week block. Y. changes the choreo from block to block, varying the style. This time, we did a burlesque-y dance, a really cool choreo and one of the easier ones technically. It looked amazing, was fun to dance – and I absolutely hated it.
I like the song. I like burlesque itself very much. I liked the previous burlesque choreo we did. I did not like this one. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe it’s because I missed a class on account of my hamstring and fell behind. I’m not even sure what came first: my dislike of the choreo or my inability to remember it. At the end, the former certainly caused the latter because instead of thinking about what my feet should be doing, I was thinking about how much I hate it all.
To make it all that much worse, Y. really, really, really loved this particular choreo. She loved it so much, she insisted that both classes dance it together at the end wearing high heels and sexy clothes. Which made yesterday’s class fun, but also a nightmare. A fun nightmare.
Because I wasn’t feeling entirely sure about the stupid choreo, I rejoined the beginner class. It takes place before the intermediate and uses the same choreography, progressing through it more slowly. Y. promised to work with us on the choreo for the entire lesson, which was exactly what we did. It helped with my ability to perform it, but didn’t do anything to endear it to me. Still, I don’t bow out of dance classes for silly reasons such as this.
The sexy high heels part was the worst, and not just for me, judging by everyone’s moaning, trying to hide behind each other and awkwardly adjusting their sexy clothes. I skipped the high heels – I have mild splayfeet and heels hurt like hell. My doctor noticed the «wrong» calluses on the ball of my foot and advised me to not wear heels too often. If anyone asks, I tell them my doctor absolutely forbade me to wear heels which keeps me comfortably safe from unreasonable expectations concerning my footwear and allows me to wear Dr Martens basically all the time, which is a clear win-win in my eyes. The enormous toe box of the Docs is a godsend for splayfeet, too.
But, for obvious reasons, industrial-strength boots were not the ideal option for a burlesque choreo, so I put on my ballet slippers instead. I should’ve stopped at that and just worn something less girly-sexy and more sporty-sexy – or at least something longer than hotpants. That might’ve prevented me from feeling like crap (and ugly crap at that). Oh well, lesson learned.
That minor self-esteem crisis did nothing to improve my relationship with the choreography. After the collective dance-off was over and comfortable clothing was restored to my person, I decided to stay for the intermediate class in the hopes of getting some proper un-hated dancing done that day.
And then Y. happily annonced: «Great, now we can finish learning this choreography!»
So I did the unthinkable and bowed out of the second class and went home. Which was, all told, probably the best course of action. Had we continued this choreo past the six-week-mark, I would’ve dealt with it and stayed in class. But, seeing how it was the very last class with this choreo, it just wasn’t worth the effort.
Still bugs me though. Pah.