Genetic Strands: Tap Dancing in Socks

My wife and I decided to take dance lessons—after nine years of watching other folks dance at Salsa Sunday’s across the street on the wharf and standing aloof at friend’s weddings, we took the plunge and enrolled through Capitola Parks and Recreation. This is not to say we haven’t rocked out to numerous bands over the years—that form of instinctual body undulations in a tightly packed, dark, sweaty room hasn’t been a problem. But, whenever the situation was more formal,and we needed to blend amongst other couples box stepping, fox trotting or whatever, we were not the smoothest couple on the dance floor—if we even made it that far.

Perhaps I blew all chances of stepping in time with syncopated rhythm by following the Grateful Dead for so many years and wiggling in the snake dance. Or perhaps I was just born with two left feet. In any case, we looked into several dance lesson options in Santa Cruz—but felt insecure in joining any country swing, salsa, or ballroom classes. So, it came to pass that we decided, in advance, that the only type of dance that we both felt comfortable with, was tap dancing. I suppose sharing those kind of “what the hell were we thinking” decisions is the reason we got married in the first place.

Over wine one night we showed each other the dream tap move we would one day like to be able to emulate. We both loved Gregory Hines in Mel Brooks History of the World: Part 1, and had grown up seeing enough tap dance moves in movies that we aspired to one day learn to be cool and tap. Cool? Perhaps--but definitely not something that would ever help us to merge with the salsa dancers on sunday nights. Nor would us pulling off tap dance windmills get us any closer to moving around the dance floor as a couple—but this did not deter our decision.

I like to do things that do not require a lot of prep work, but mostly I try to avoid anything that requires shopping. Unfortunately, tap dance requires tap dance shoes, which meant that doing a “couple thing” would insure my involvement in buying shoes.

Fast forward, she has shoes, back-up shoes and shoes on hold—I have socks.

I was excited to learn that I was a size 13 in tap shoes until the sales clerk blew it and told me they were women’s tap shoes. My wife quickly corrected, “Unisex. They are unisex tap shoes.” But the damage had been done and I walked out empty footed.

I kept flashing back to the kid in Fame who glued bottle caps to his sneakers. That’s what I wanted, but again, since this was an endeavor that was supposed to bring us closer together (while dancing apart) I visited a few more stores, quickly becoming agitated, distracted and grumpy. At this point it seemed, with one day to go before our first class, that I would go shoeless.

I was the only student that did not have tap shoes. Our instructor, a very sweet nice lady, said it would be like taking drum lessons without drumsticks—and she was correct. While everyone else was click-clacking, floor thwacking, and sweeping the ground like Fred Astaire, I made soft pitter-pats that could not be heard over the din of what sounded like ten typewriters and 12 monkeys. At one point my wife overheard me making “tippy tap, tippy tap,” noises feigning that I was actually accomplishing anything other than being a good partner.

Throughout it all, I consciously tried not to think about my awkwardness, limited grace and mute feet. Instead I thought about how tap dancing in socks was a perfect metaphor for my entire existence. So often, I feel like every movement I make resounds into empty space—and as we all know, nobody can hear you in space—just like nobody could hear the Gregory Hines-like tap moves I was busting out. Maybe I need to put taps on more than just my feet, maybe I need to be louder, prouder and let the world hear the rhythm of my life. Or maybe I just need to suck it up and go to another shoe store.