Premier Danseur

Premier Danseur (prə-myā-däⁿ-sœr) Noun: A principle male dancer


My husband is dancing.

A moment ago I stood about where he is now, hovering on the edge of the action like a middle-schooler desperate to be included. The music had begun. The dancers had gathered, almost all of them from different countries and younger than us by a generation or two. Someone mentioned river-dancing, so I was ready to queue up with the crowd and learn something new. But this was not to be a lesson for beginners, rather it was a contest. Ten dancers lined up on a make-shift stage, poised to compete for a prize. This was to be a show. I realized I was out of my element, so I moved to the outer orbit of the crowd and watched, expecting Bill to do the same. He is, after all, an introvert.

Unlike me, the raging extrovert, Bill doesn’t fear exclusion. At times he actually seeks it out. If he fears anything, it is exhibitionism. Which makes the jig—yes, a jig—he is dancing at present quite alarming. It’s St. Patrick’s Day and apparently Bill’s idea of how leprechauns dance is this: twirl—yes, twirl—with one index finger pointing at the top of your head. I’m wondering if he just had a stroke. Or a lobotomy. Who is this man?

And he looks so proud of himself. No, not proud, just content that now, at this moment and in this place—this very public place—he is dancing. We are at a party in the courtyard of an apartment complex. Our son and daughter-in-law minister here for one of our favorite organizations: Apartment Life. Throwing parties like this one is what they do best. This means they are in charge of the dance contest. It also means Bill can’t win, you know, nepotism and all that. But he is dancing anyway.

How forcefully can I express the wonder of this moment? May I tell of the countless receptions we’ve been to where Bill let his shyness get the better of him and refused to dance? May I tell of the times when we did indeed dance—trying to do it correctly—and those attempts became mini-conflicts in our marriage? Our combined embarrassment produced an exponential awkwardness, not because we couldn’t dance, but because we couldn’t loosen up enough to enjoy it anyway.

I notice those couples at receptions now. The ones where the wife looks longingly at the dance floor and the husband sulks. It’s subtle, but the longing and the sulking are unmistakable. Dancing says romance to a wife, or lack thereof. To a husband it says adequacy, or lack thereof. She thinks, What’s so hard about this? He thinks, Why would I make a fool of myself in the center of a room where people might, well, see? (It’s a little like flower-giving: Bill thinks this must involve buying a dozen roses. All I want are flowers, and it doesn’t matter how much they cost. Heck, pick some dandelions in the front yard and you will melt my heart.) Dance with me, fool, even if we just embrace and sway.

Now may I tell of the night over a decade ago when we spent the evening sitting at a linen-covered table, munching on mints and Jordan almonds, and never made it to the dance floor? I didn’t notice the faint sulk on Bill’s face till it was almost time to go. I guess I thought we were officially over it. I guess I thought it didn’t matter so much anymore. We mattered, but dancing didn’t. I assured him—sincerely—that I wasn’t longing for a two-step or a waltz or even one of those slow-dances where you just stand there and move back and forth like a metronome.

Nevertheless, Bill came home angry at himself that night and determined to never sit on the sidelines again. In his mind, not dancing translated into a kind of failure. Thus dancing became a metaphor for courage.

After that dancing was fun. We still stink at it, but we enjoy it now. It’s mighty convenient for us that dancing these days is a mixed-bag genre. Compare the moves on today’s dance floor to the precision of a Jane Austen ball or the interlocking rhythm of the Virginia reel. It’s like placing a Jackson Pollack next to a Rembrandt. Today’s dancing is vague. Yesterday’s was exact. For the dance-impaired, this is blessed relief. Sure there are those dance-savants we watch a bit wistfully, jealously in fact, who make it look easy. Sure, there are the reality shows that remind us it’s not. But the glob of people who populate the parquet at most wedding receptions today just bounce around like so many puppies begging to go outside.

Puppy-dancing, that’s what we’re good at now. No one notices us (they never did when we were self conscious either) and we just do our thing. We aren’t coordinated, but we coordinate, as in fit together. It’s a rhythmic respite from the rest of life. An excuse to gaze into each other’s eyes. Add music, sway a little, and it’s magic.

But this, this is altogether different. Bill has officially bounced all the way off a cliff.

He’s made it to the final three. Our son announces the next level of the dance-off and asks the DJ to change up the music. Bill grins in anticipation. My daughter-in-law and I are hugging each other and laughing. What’s gotten into him? we both wonder.

I am lost in the grin on his face…when I can catch it as he rotates in and out of my view. Normally, I would be swaying in time with the dancers on stage. Church—teeth-rattling rock worship in church—has taught me to move with music where ever I am. (What better place to learn that? In the middle of adoration and amazing, amazing grace.)

But I am frozen in admiration. I love this man.

Bill and I have been to enough weddings to be familiar with current music. We even know the few “moves” associated with some of the staples. But we depend on other’s feet to remind us. I mean, we hardly look up during the complicated parts. Bill acknowledges The Cupid Shuffle with a look of recognition. And then it all falls apart. Shuffle is exactly what he does. To the right. To the left. Or something like that. The inevitable happens and he’s eliminated. It’s down to two dancers.

He joins me on the periphery of the crowd, smiling and sweating and ready to cheer for the two remaining dancers. Both are impressive. One, from India, does a kind of sultry windmill with her arms. The other, the ultimate winner because her friends cheer the loudest, appears double-jointed in her knees and elbows.

Now is where I might point out what I am sure is Bill’s underlying purpose for this public display of boogie-down. His motion has a mission, right? I suspect it does. I’m guessing he wants the party to succeed. He wants the guests (the party-goers) to enjoy this memorable night staged by our kids (the party-givers). He’s turning water to wine, doing his part to add flavor. He joined the contest as a kind of Pied Piper, nobly competing so that others would follow suit. Or, depending on how you look at it, he threw himself under the bus. Committed hari kari on the dance floor. Because this is certainly not within the boundaries of his comfort zone.

Comfort zone? Bill has obliterated his. The raw courage of it all is staggering. For the naturally uninhibited, this may seem a small feat. But I know him. He prizes safety in social situations. Clearly, he prizes conquering his own fears even more. I happen to love his reticence, his careful way of speaking and acting. I think it displays a God-given propensity for wisdom and sensitivity to others. But Bill says there are times when his reserve becomes an enemy, handcuffing him to a chair when he needs to be up and on his feet. His objectivity—that rare ability to stand apart—keeps him removed when he needs to engage. Who knew this enemy could be vanquished simply by dancing?

But, at the moment—at this gleeful moment—I don’t care about his motives. I’m having too much fun watching him from the sidelines.