The monkey made me do it

Ballroom blitz

Two summers ago I was inbetween my years of college courses, madly scrambling for work that would tide me over for the coming school year. I applied for everything I could find, and went to interviews for positions as disparate as administrative assistant, barista, and finally ballroom dance instructor. The interview was simple. We took a couple of ethics questionnaires and chatted with a very large woman with clown-level makeup and a bright muu-muu dress. Then we went out to the dance floor and their instructors (a group of attractive 20-30 year olds who were poised, orange-tanned, and equally made up) (yes, even the men) put us through our paces. We were asked what dance styles we knew (for me, it was swing, country-western (oh hush, I had to do SOMETHING with myself down in San Antonio), and salsa) and the appropriate people would take us out and whirl us around a bit. It wasn't all that hard, and I enjoyed the dancing for the most part. I guess ballroom salsa isn't quite what I've learned in the clubs, though. I move my hips too much. Too "urban".

I was hired along with a tiny little thing I'll call Nikki because I can't remember her real name. She had long bleached blonde hair, enormous eyes, twig arms, and more eyeliner than I'd ever seen on a non-Goth. We were given handbooks and mix tapes and instructed in the magic and grace that is the *highly recognizable name removed* Dance System. We learned swing, tango, waltz, foxtrot, country-western (2-step), salsa, rumba, and the hustle. Five basic steps within each style, plus the transitions between steps. We learned how to lead and follow for each style. Along with the dance instruction, we had sessions with the enormous muu-muu lady in which we were shown how to sell dance packages and encourage our students to move up the certification levels and compete in higher and higher divisions. She would also give us little life lessons on topics she thought would help us. Like pantyhose. And how good pantyhose was in every situation.

I didn't fit in. Not in the least. The enthusiasm that I'd managed to muster for the interview (I give good interview) disappeared the first week, and the thought of having to sell lessons to my friends and acquaintences (one of the main tenets of the scheme) made me feel vaguely ill. Plus, my look wasn't quite right for the job. Muu-muu complemented me at first on my "fresh, surfer look" but soon started to remind me each time to make sure that I wear more makeup. I kept telling her that I thought I WAS wearing more makeup, but none of my acceptable levels of plastering were thick enough for her. My hair was also not quite big enough, which is a struggle I haven't tried to wage since the early 90's (where I admitted defeat to my bangs in a very touching ceremony involving the destruction of a large can of White Rain).

Nikki was a natural. Her voice was high and chirpy, she seemed born with orange skin and silver eyeshadow, and she was as shallow as a puddle on the 4th of July. We played friendly in the false way that females do when stuck in a situation where there is no one else more compatible to talk to, and I soon was regaled with her tales of love and betrayal in the higher social classes of Seattle. She was currently a boat trophy for a guy on Mercer Island ("which bikini do you think will make him love me?") but had a past life of Belltown partying and drug usage that verged on Hiltonesque. She was charmingly nonchalant about the few times she'd been roofied (Rohypnol, the date rape drug) and how waking up in a strange house was quite the adventure. She worked part-time as a representative for a popular brand of alcohol and spread her particular type of bubbly joy to the masses while subtly encouraging men to buy her drinks mixed with her sponsor's booze. She had no problem selling the full lessons package. I negotiated, and ended up (gasp!) selling people only what they needed.

You can probably guess how this ended. Nikki outsold and outbubbled me, and while I kicked her ass on the dance floor, she maintained a chirp in her instructions that I couldn't duplicate. Muu-muu had to let me go after the training was completed even though they had originally hoped to put both of us on full-time. She was kind and told me that it was only because their staffing requirements had been lessened and they could only afford to bring one person on, but we both knew that my surfer hip-shaking pantyhoseless style would stand out in their group of polished professionals. I still dance with the guys when I see them out in the clubs (in their strange chin-up-elbows-out style that conflicts with everything I know about salsa), but have given up all hope of ever bringing my personal style to the masses.

I do still lead a mean hustle, though.

posted by LadyJay @ 5:44 PM