In an abrupt leap from eighteen years of prior behavior, my husband signed himself up for Sevillanas classes. Sevillanas are the traditional dances done at ferias here in Southern Spain, often referred to as “flamenco dancing.” They involve grace and drama and stylized footwork.
Basically, my worst nightmare.
I also signed up for classes, because when one’s husband makes such a gesture, it’s best to keep up. His classes are the evening, taught by a woman with a long history of teaching the steps in a manageable fashion (she successfully prevented two Naval Captains from diplomatic incident). My classes were in the daytime, taught by a professional dancer who wears full eyeliner and flowers in her hair, and dances with exquisite flair, all whilst six months pregnant.
It became apparent that Paul’s class was favored by the sixty and over set, and moved at a glacial pace. Mine, meanwhile, resembled Dancing With the Stars, complete with stomping and hysterics (internal, anyway).
I attended Paul’s class and felt successful. And because life is not an AP course, I decided to drop Badass Sevillanas for Mousersize Sevillanas.
Will I regret this decision? Probably not, considering I get to look in the blue eyes of my love, while surrounded by elderly Spanish folks. Together, we step towards beauty, one paso at a time. Poco a poco, until the music finds us, and we move with it.