Weeks of dance lessons, multitudes of websites bookmarked. Now, here I stand at the famous New Orleans Rock and Bowl at the Thursday night zydeco dance. And I'm thoroughly intimidated.
It's a mixed crowd, parsed many ways. Mostly, but not entirely white. A dress code notable by the lack of one. There are men in Western hats and big silver belt buckles and slim jeans and boots, and there are men who looked like they wandered in from a contra dance, in uniform—shorts, t-shirt, sneakers, sweat rag looped on the belt. Everyone is dancing with an aura of complete, and often sexy self-assuredness. This is home. This is where they meet their friends. This is not where I belong.
Six dances later, I manage to nab a partner. And the two-step has completely left my head. I cannot catch the rhythm. I step right, she steps left. Her smile is getting tighter. My frame is good though, and by the end of the song I'm in sync. She parts with me very quickly.
The next partner treats me roughly. “Don't bounce. Level shoulders. Little steps.” Nothing has yet happened to suggest that my initial attitude was not the appropriate one. I notice later that she is extremely choosy about who she'll dance with, picking only the smooth hotshots.
Finally I get a partner, not much more experienced than I am, with whom I can recover a whiff of my self confidence. “You're so good at navigating!” (I didn't plow into anyone). We dance again, then with her friend, and I almost can do this. So long as I don't try anything fancy.
It's time for a beer, and a camera. 
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