A Teammate’s Pledge

This is, without a doubt, one of the greatest teams in the world. Photo by Georgia National Guard (flickr)

This is, without a doubt, one of the greatest teams in the world.

Photo by Georgia National Guard (flickr)

I admit that being a team player is a weakness of mine.  I’m a very independent person that’s always preferred working alone.  My reasoning is selfish: If I screw up, I can only blame myself.  There’s also the mantra “If you want to get something done, you have to do it yourself.”  Unsurprisingly, being a part of Kañanazo has been challenging.  My desire to be a leader in the dance-o-sphere compounds it.  Yet, practicing this routine given to us by bachata champions has given me a better idea of what it is to be a teammate.

As a member of the team I pledge…

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It’s Time

Arthur_Murray_System_1922

photo from Wikimedia Commons

 

One of the few certainties I had during my college search was the resolution to not attend a big university.  I didn’t—and still don’t like— crowds.  I already knew about dreaded auditorium classes.  Those prerequisite classes that would make me one of hundreds of students.  I’d disappear into the sea of people, and the chances that my professor would know me was would disappear, too.

I needed direct and accessible communication to my professors.  My learning style thrives on feedback and constructive criticism.  The prospect of a teacher saying “Who are you again?” as I walked into his or her office was inconceivable.

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Growing Elegance

I had two private lessons yesterday because I missed one during my first work week.  Not that I was complaining, I got to dance with both Eddie and Olga.  I don’t get to dance with the former often.  Aside from co-owning the studio, he’s also an accredited ballroom judge, a coach, and the professional for his many competitive students.  Not to mention he has a family of his own.  He’s a hard man to pin down for those reasons, and I’m always grateful whenever I can have a lesson with him.  This time, we finally got to Smooth.

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The Scoop

photo by snowpea&bokchoi (flickr)

photo by snowpea&bokchoi (flickr)

I’ve been procrastinating with this blog of mine because I feel like all the life has been sucked out of my dancing.  If that suffers, so does my writing.  Fortunately, my sense of professionalism compels me to update more than once a month (read: sarcasm).  I’d like to get back to updating once a week.  But, I’m not sure when that’s going to happen given my job search, so please continue to bear with me.  Things have been hard lately dance-wise.

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Honing Versatility

I have a confession to make.  I’ve had two potential posts swirling around in my mind’s eye for a couple of days.  The reason I haven’t put one of these up until now is because I’ve been dealing with teacher withdrawal.  Yep, Tommy has taken a leave of absence from the studio again.  As of yesterday, he’s been gone three weeks.  *Sigh*  Last time this happened, he was gone six weeks.  I hope and pray we don’t push that.  Que sera, sera.

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These Tricky Emotions

This picture of me at The Mob Museum is an apt representation of how I feel about this particular truth: not happy.

It was something I always knew.  I never tried to deny it.  Perhaps it was almost too obvious, so well blended into my dancing that it didn’t bother me.  Unfortunately, the emotional force behind this just hit me a couple of days ago.  Now, I feel the need that every writer feels.  The need that says “Come hell or high water, I have to write about this.  Like, right now.”  This blog is largely positive and personal.  It will remain that way, but I will not stifle my emotions.  I’m going to pour my heart on the page and have no regrets.

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Tommy’s Reminder

“Grr!  Ugh!”  More noises of frustration slipped through my lips as I continued my rumba walks.  These walks, like its Cuban motion counterpart, were something I had repeated meticulously whenever I had the chance.  Up and down the long walls every practice.  I thought it had gotten better, but DP’s constant corrections increased my doubts.  A little adjustment there.  A sound indicating erroneous movement.  A tweak of my standing leg.  Where in bleep had all the progress gone?!  I knew I could never reach perfection, but did it have to seem so Sisyphean?  I was crying internally from exasperation.  To make matters worse, those tears were threatening to spill outwardly.  (I hate crying in front of people.)  DP noticed and took me aside for a pep talk.

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Please, No Tug-O-War

photo by vastateparksstaff (flickr)

photo by vastateparksstaff (flickr)

I’m not fond of tug-o-war.  To clarify, watching people is fine, but don’t get me involved.  The fall semester of my senior year of college I decided to participate.  It was freshmen versus everyone else.  The competition is always rigged to make the newbies wear their dorky beanies for an extra week.  My freshman year, they tethered golf carts to the other side and lightly tapped the gas.

Anyway, I decided to join the “fun” because it was my last year.  Too bad I decided to wear flip-flops that day.  Noticing my poor choice of footwear, I was at a loss.  “Just take ’em off,” said the burly male student behind me.  Sure, it’d help me plant my feet better.  The flip-flops came off, and the tug-o-war began.  We won with some mighty tugging, unremarkable.  What was remarkable was the fact I didn’t feel the stinging and burning from the fire ants that covered my left foot until after the event concluded.  I had stepped in their hill as I was tugging.  I had at least seven bites, and my foot soon swelled to the point where I couldn’t where my left shoe properly. I still have the scars, but they’ve faded significantly.  No more tug-o-war for me!

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