I love trying new things. It’s just one of my many qualities that make me so quirky and dateable. So when a friend asked me if I wanted to do Ceroc, a type of partner dance, I instantly said yes like the fun, spontaneous person I am. I had zero preconception of what Ceroc entails, thanks to another quirky habit of mine, which is tuning out of conversations that aren’t about myself. In my head I was waltzing around, impressing the Ezra Miller-lookalike dance teacher in his floating white top and tight leather pants that hugged his perfectly sculpted rear…
Oh, how wrong I was. How very, very, wrong. The class operated on a rotating partner basis, divided strictly into men and women. Because there were more women, there were times spent dancing on your own. This was a lose-lose situation. Being alone felt very alone, because you were literally standing by yourself in a room full of couples holding hands, staring at an empty void in front of you. And yet, when you did have someone holding your hand, it was the sweaty grasp of an unknown man you either pitied, or felt creeped out by. A painful realised metaphor of my own love life. But, I would not let silly Ceroc get me down. I would get over myself and embrace my aloneness. So, I got really into the moves, namely the spins. I spun like I had never spun before, only to trip over my own feet into the partnerless void that I was trying to make the most of. My friend laughed. The metaphor continued.
The night proceeded to get worse as lights were dimmed for “free time.” This was instantly triggering and I was taken back to the horrors of primary school discos. My friend who I had hoped was equally as terrorised as me, was quickly asked to dance and I was once again alone. Now I was well and truly reliving a disco, only this time I didn’t even have a paper bag of gummy bears to comfort eat. An instructor who I will amiably call Old Man Yellow Teeth tried to approach me, but I ran to the water cooler. Hydrated out of avoidance, I stood alone at the side watching people dance unattractively and thought about various lollies.
When teaching resumed, all the men had started to smell of BO. Delightful. While switching one pair of dripping hands for the next, I made the mistake of looking at the mirror. In it I saw a horrified young woman, holding hands with a very sad-looking, sweaty 40-year old businessman, shorter than her (and she was quite short). A tragic pair. She looked very dissatisfied, and he was looking at her feet with a tortured expression. Who was she? A drop of sweat from the businessman’s forehead fell onto my shoe, seemingly in slow motion. Disgustingly, I realised the woman was me.
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After that thoroughly depressing night of dancing, I have not been back. I continue the partnerless dance of life itself, and it is a happy one, free from the sweaty hands of Ceroc.