La Nuit Blanche

Wooden jigsaw puzzle, from Custom Puzzle Craft

There are three types of men that I will never dance with:

1. Men with Apocalyptic Body Odor

2. Outstandingly Stupifyingly Bad Dancer

3. The Tangorilla, and all of its subcategories:

- Those Who can’t take “No” for an answer
- The Jerk
- The Drunkard

This is all pretty reasonable and self-explanatory, I think, don’t you agree? I’ve been through a lot since my first tango class… And I definitely know what I don’t want.

But I also don’t expect anyone and everyone I dance with to be a tall, handsome, delicious, well-dressed porteño with perfect technique and a heart of tango-gold. Once in a while, I do get to dance with one of those yummies, but I enjoy dancing with many different kinds of men, excepting the horribles mentioned above. Besides, there are other things in the tango besides the dance itself…

The Beginner, however, is a different world altogether.

Ok, I won’t say I LOVE dancing with beginners. To be absolutely truthful, that would be a lie. But many, many times, I have liked dancing with men who are just starting out on this journey. Sweetness of character and personal connection matter a lot, and if we get along off the dancefloor, I enjoy dancing with beginners, immensely. Or, I used to… Until now.

I think I’ve reached a strange point in my tango. I can no longer dance with people who started out, say, in the past six months, or so, give or take, no matter how talented, gentle, or sweet. In this case, the technique is a glaring problem. Here, the dance itself matters a lot.

My back aches a lot from the tension, as I never really know what is being led — the equivalent to squinting at a jigsaw puzzle in darkness. Or conversely, I am over-compensating for over-execution with too much force, and I want to squeal in pain, especially during badly timed giros and boleos that crack through my spine like a studded whip.  (All that energy, with no intention…!) My feet feel like they are being ground to a pulp, and my ankles collapse from the constant strain they are put through — repetitive steps and sequences practiced over and over again throughout not just a song, but an entire tanda – that’s 12 minutes. I understand the extremely limited vocabulary, but 12 minutes of just walking would be better than having me balance on the same leg as if I were training on a ballet barre. My neck pulls a nerve from the head-butting, my shoulder pulls a nerve from the arm-wrestling. My hands get nail marks from all the frightened squeezing…

It has become a physical impossibility.

I know all these things will get smoothed out eventually, with time. But I am not a professional, a teacher, or super-experienced dancer who knows how to work around these things, who can afford to be patient. And I am not a teenage gymnast with a body of steel. I am 5′5″, weigh 100lbs, and have never worked out in my life. I smoke, I wear needle-thin stilts beneath really thin ankles that have half the bone and muscle mass of any boy past the age of 13. I am strong for my height and weight, but I am shorter, thinner, and lighter than these men, who have yet to learn how to be responsible for themselves in the dance, to develop a strong individual sense of balance — so I am exhausted from holding them up while they stumble, hang onto me, press down on me, loom over me like giants, as they put weighty pressure on my body.

It’s gotten to the point where I am downright terrified that certain people will approach me. I can see them from across the dancefloor, I notice them looking at me, then start to move in my direction, I get a sinking feeling in my stomach, or worse, a lightening bolt of panic, so I slowly get up and run for the bathroom, or quickly take off my shoes…

I don’t want to hurt their feelings. I like them as people. Some are brilliant guys, incredibly funny, I love being around them. But, sadly, only off the dancefloor.

Is it a phase? It didn’t used to be like this. Logically, shouldn’t I be even more able to dance with beginners, now that my own tango is getting stronger? Am I growing into some strange mutant hybrid, and am becoming physically weaker, as my tango improves?

Or, is it that two beginners with bad technique balance each other out? Perhaps this is exactly what they meant when others used to tell me, a year ago: “At this point in your tango, you will enjoy dancing with people of a similar level to your own.” Is this true throughout one’s tango? I have noticed that all the physical discomfort and soreness I used to feel after every milonga a year ago, has vanished. The same pain and soreness I used to experience as a beginner myself, returns after a single tanda with a beginner now.

After one particular milonga last week, where my whole body, from head to toe, was aching for several days, I’ve come to the conclusion that, secondary to my desire for beautiful dances with great dancers, I must take care of my body.

There is one amazing tanguera here in New York who assures me that she enjoys dancing with anyone and everyone. And when I watch her, I believe her. She can make anyone — anyone — look good. She is not only smiling, but laughing — her whole demeanor radiates warmth and pleasure.

I would like to be like her someday. Maybe I will reach that stage when I improve and mature as a dancer, even more. But right now, heels and milongas will be reserved for men with good basic technique. The beginners will have my sneakers at practica, in open embrace, if I am willing.

Forgive me, sweet men. But this is just reality for a female social dancer who wishes she could turn into the Incredible Hulk for you sometimes. There are strong professional teachers who get paid to do this for good reason. I am most definitely not one of them.