On showing up for class

There is a fine line and an entire universe between going to a dance class, and showing up for class. The latter involves dressing the part, particularly at Pineapple, and using the cycle to the studio to decide to own one's patch of floor. Once through the crowd of hip young things that buzz around the steps in their sloppy tartan shirts and Converse and gravity-defying jeans, the miasma of 12 hours worth of sweat-soaked floors and third-hand breath welcomes the faithful. I am comfortable with this stench; fifteen years of dancing conditioned me well. And I love the hive, every floor heaving and pounding with an aural cocktail of drum n bass and Britney, each studio offering a different pack in a carefully evolved dress code. The hip hoppers are still the wildest, where girls in hot pants and striped socks attempt to out-'fro each other. I delight to watch them collide with the bunheads fresh from their plies and the collective tussle for supremacy over London's steepest narrowest staircase that ensues. Once into studio 11 tonight, I was in the hands (decorated with fetching black nail polish) of Andrew, my new favourite teacher. This man is so infectiously enthusiastic about the act of sweating to music (Britney again!) and I am swept up by his fanatic attention to detail and his passion for dance. He makes me want to look at the girl in the mirror and like her more. I remember that its so much about training the muscle to create the action flawlessly again and again, until it happens without thought and you are free to speak yourself fluently without hesitation or lack of vocabulary. For too long, I've been hovering on Lake Me, and finally I've plunged. And the water's fine.