Damn! He Voted for Bush!
The Perils of Tango Swingin'
By Lolly DePaulo
My college roommate and I used to use
the word as a euphemism, as in, “Wow,
would I like to tango with him.” That
was many years ago, before marriage and
children and life in these times of the
Busheviks and their creation of the
politics of doom, gloom and The End of
it All. Remembering those innocent
days, I happened upon a flier
advertising tango lessons and decided
to do it, to learn to tango for real.
Afterall, I have always been good at
shaking my bootie….and getting down and
getting funky. Which is exactly why I
am so bad at the tango. It is not about
shaking it, it is about control. Having
just completed my eighth lesson, sadly
I am still a dork on the dance floor.
Nevertheless, the need to tango has
compelled me into some strange venues.
For example, last Friday night I
ventured into a small, private club,
The Tango Café, that offered lessons
and practice plus food and wine for the
grand total of $12.00. I have never
been able to pass up a bargain and so
gave up my Friday night peace vigil to
partake of the strange world of tango.
I entered the dimly lit hall alone,
there were perhaps twenty men and forty
women arrayed in a circle, most dressed
in varying degrees of advanced goofy –
thigh-high tango skirts, crocodile
tango shoes --. Slipping into a space
between two men, I joined the practice
of the molinette, an intermediate type
of step that had me tipping and
careening in the opposite direction of
my partner. Never mind, I persevered
for the fifteen minutes left until the
more advanced lesson, of which I also
sucked.
Just like the man shoveling elephant
manure at the circus rather than giving
up on “show business,” I apparently
would rather be a wall flower than give
up on the romantic idea of being able
to glide effortlessly and seductively
around a dance floor in the arms of a
wheat-colored Latino; so, I meandered
over to an empty table and pulled out
my beer, waiting for the practice
session to start.
Kind of like a high school prom, women
lined the walls; men stood by the
refreshments. When the vague-Latin-
inspired-waltz type sounds of tango
began anew, I, like the other “girls,”
as the instructor called us, waited
breathlessly for one of the pot-
bellied, balding lotharios to come and
take us off the shelf and onto the
floor. I waited, and waited and waited –
but no offers. Perhaps I needed to
throw a hanky down or pretend to swoon
so that some aging “hottie” could
collect me in his tango arms and rescue
me from the embarrassment of my empty
table.
Finally, a kindly man in rumpled suit
took pity on my lonely vigil…we glided
and tripped (actually I tripped, he was
pretty good) for one number, then I
thanked him and resumed sitting at my
spot. I noticed that the men had their
pick of women, and apparently the
etiquette of the situation demanded
that a man dance only one song before
moving onto the next eager lady.
As I waited, some women came and
chatted me up. I was grateful for the
conversation and met a tall young woman
from Poland who had come seeking the
same bargain evening as myself. She had
studied tango for two years in London
and was good. So, when another man
offered me a pity dance, I
magnanimously told him to take Carolina
instead.
A tall, blond Polish beauty who could
really tango was male-bait for the
regulars (some of whom were actually
young, attractive men), and she found
herself in constant demand. So, I
waited and wondered if I could cope
with the embarrassment of being such a
loser. Then I saw him; he was tall and
well built with olive skin and a full
head of wavy, graying hair (like an
older Bernardo from “West Side Story”).
Dressed impeccably in trendy yet
tasteful clothes, he scanned the ladies
by the wall then began walking directly
towards my sad little spot. I expected
him to move on towards the acting
student next to me who was doing
research for a scene, but to my utter
astonishment, my guy stopped and asked
me, only me to dance. I was excited!
The best looking man in the place had
made a beeline for yours truly. We
danced! And, it was OK. He was as lousy
as I was. With his long legs I found it
difficult to avoid the occasional toe
stomp, but it was fun. We danced again,
then parted to separate sides of the
room. I was on a roll and asked a
different guy to dance. I didn’t mess
up once! Getting another beer, I
settled in, head held high, lookin’ hot
and saucy. Then I noticed the same
olive-skinned guy making his way back
to my table. He planted himself next to
Carolina and myself.
Wow! I was smokin’! He asked me to
dance again and stepped some more on my
expensive Argentine-made dance shoes.
We talked, we laughed, we talked and
talked….and therein was the rub. He was
a Republican! He liked Bush! He thought
the war in Iraq was a grand idea! He
supported Swartzeneggar!! I was
crushed; my prince was really a toad.
But, in the name of remembered
innocence, I kept my mouth shut. Sadly,
when he wanted to know if I was up for
an after-Tango martini, I declined. I
really, really want to tango, but not
that bad.
