I arrived at my first salsa class to find a small army of schoolchildren outside in Halloween costumes. There were about fifty of them. I was perfectly capable of making myself nervous without their help.
Thankfully, their disco had a separate entrance. A banner pointed me towards the salsa.
Inside, there were two people.
My heart sank. What have I signed up for?
The instructions had said to arrive fifteen minutes early. I’d arrived ten minutes early, having apparently calculated that five minutes would be enough for everyone else to assemble and make the room less intimidating. There was a flaw in this plan.
Getting through the door
I’m friendly once I’m comfortable. Put me in a room where I know people and I can chat quite happily. The social anxiety kicks in when I’m faced with a roomful of strangers, especially if I’ve arrived alone. I worry that everyone will already have their people and I’ll be standing there trying to work out how to join in. Somehow, in my head, being alone becomes something everyone else will notice and judge.
It’s one of the things I want to explore through Beyond the Bare Minimum. I want more connection and new experiences in my life, which does rather require me to turn up for some of them.
The choice of salsa wasn’t particularly profound. I’d looked up a few dance classes near me. Some looked rather formal, others a bit ballroomy. I’d seen salsa in Mexico, liked the music, and thought it looked fun. That was enough of a reason to give it a go.
Before leaving, I’d put my anxiety at about six or seven out of ten. I’d expected getting into the car to be the hardest part. Now I was in a slightly dank room with the feel of a working men’s club function room, wondering where everybody was. The floor was wooden and not too sticky, which is about as glowing a review as I can offer of the décor.
The sight of a group greeting one another and sitting together briefly confirmed my fears. Ah. Here we go. But they knew each other from the intermediate class, and the room soon filled with other beginners who seemed as new to it all as I was. Between chatting to the women who’d arrived first and introducing myself to a friendly bloke who recommended some practice videos, I began to settle in.
Things were already looking considerably better than they had when I walked through the door.
The feet were initially cooperative
The first twenty minutes went surprisingly well: forward and backward steps, side steps, and a diagonal movement whose name I’ve already forgotten. With a bit of musical knowledge behind me, I felt reasonably confident about the rhythm. Three steps, a pause, then another three steps and a pause. I was smiling pretty much throughout.
Then we added another person.
The teacher showed us where to put our arms and paired us with whoever was opposite. We changed partners roughly every minute, so there was no need to find someone and negotiate an entire evening together. You had a go, then moved on.
Being that close to a stranger was a little awkward at first. Most of my partners were considerably shorter than my six foot two – my poor back – and I suddenly became very conscious of having eyes. Where were they supposed to go? I settled on looking over a shoulder, which seemed to work reasonably well.
Partner dancing was easier than I’d expected, until I tried to lead with my left hand or say anything. Then the wrong foot would move, or neither would, or we’d fall out of time. Looking down earned me a telling-off. I was only checking whether my feet were obeying instructions. When things got too complicated, I stopped altogether. At least then they were both doing the same thing.
Usually we both laughed, even when it was clearly me who’d caused the problem. I was having fun, and getting it wrong didn’t feel particularly serious. Then we’d start again.
One song on, one song off
I’d only committed to staying for the beginner lesson, but I was enjoying myself enough to stay another half an hour for social dancing. Asking someone if she fancied a practice felt quite natural by then. The bloke I’d chatted to earlier even called me over to dance with someone else. I’d arrived worrying about how to include myself; now someone was giving me a hand.
I managed about four songs, with a song off between each one to catch my breath and let my brain recover. Dancing and conversation were still best attempted separately. There were a couple of chats that didn’t go far, and breaks outside to cool down, but I kept coming back in for another go. I was enjoying myself enough that the occasional awkward gap didn’t seem especially important.
The social dancing was quieter than I’d hoped, and most of my partners seemed about twenty years older than me. I’d still like to meet more people around my own age. But I’d had a great time, and by the end my anxiety was down to about one out of ten. The worry about looking like a loser on my own had barely crossed my mind. I’d been too busy enjoying the company and occasionally forgetting how walking worked.
I’d gone in prepared to tolerate an uncomfortable evening. Coming out wanting more was a fairly good result.
I’m going back next week. I seem to have found something I’m quite happy to be a bit shit at.
What’s something you were nervous to try but ended up going back to?” Tell me in the comments.
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