Lesson 2: Video Face

Annette calls it "video face." On the day everyone else learned how to control their facial expression so it does not display every little thing they feel or think, I was away at a church retreat and missed the lesson. Left on its own, my face displays my thoughts and emotions as vividly as if a video monitor replaced my head and flashed written updates: disbelief… contempt… boredom….

This gets me into trouble. Foolishly assuming I am capable of hiding my feelings like a grown-up, people think I rudely do not bother. In reality, trying to compose my face requires tremendous concentration. I have to keep thinking, "Face! Face! Face!" When I do this, I can keep my expression more or less acceptable, but I have no idea what you just said.

This is not the ideal quality to bring to a class taught by your spouse.

Annette is a great teacher, and musters a loyal following wherever she works. To me, a non-dancer, her experience seems vast. She began taking lessons regularly at age seven. By the time I met her, she was a Disneyland Cast Member, swing dancing at Carnation Gardens, square dancing at Bear Country, dancing as a gigantic illuminated flower in the Electrical Parade, and performing, at various times, as Tweedledum, Tweedledee, and each of the Seven Dwarves. She has studied jazz, tap, and ballet, often under nationally-recognized dance masters. She has danced in, and choreographed, loads of musical theater, and even a television commercial. She is fit, moves gracefully, and sincerely cares about each individual student. She has taught successfully for seven years. As a dance teacher, she is the Real Deal.

When Annette first began teaching, I was a freelance marketing communications writer. Though I was earning more money than I ever had as a salaried employee, some of my key clients paid very slowly. Our bills arrived as punctually as job interviewees, while the paychecks arrived as late as sullen teens resisting curfew. Our Federal taxes were overdue. I grew frightened.

When money worries your mind and every phone call comes from a creditor, the last thing you want to hear is, "Honey, I've decided my full-time job should be Dance Teacher." Deciding to dance for the money is like starting a rock band for the peace and quiet. Outwardly the supportive husband, though, I told Annette, "Follow your heart, and the money will follow you."

Three months later, driven by fear, I showed up for a beginning tap class, allegedly "for fun." When you're beginning a business as a dance instructor, the last thing you want to see is your husband in class, wearing a video face that reads, prove to me this can make money. now.

I had lots of helpful suggestions to "sharpen things up." How to get the CDs into the CD-player faster. Which particular steps were too hard for beginners. What to say. What not to say. The word "helpful" has many shades of meaning. I was helpful in the sense meaning, "over-controlling asshole." After three lessons, Annette banned me from class.

Six years later, I'm back. According to International Brotherhood of Husbands Standards, my behavior and demeanor in class falls under IBHS classification Triple Super Sensitive. I am the dog who ate the birthday cake, being let back into the house after time out. I slink around, head lowered, eager to be pals but fearing the human's stern gaze.

Before deciding to attend Annette's classes, I sent several strongly-worded memos to my face. Together, in calm, reasoned discussion, my face and I achieved an understanding on the strict boundaries of conduct we would observe during tap class. For example, we set, as a default expression, how fun! with, as an alternate, fascinating! Face's language is more vulgar than my spoken vocabulary, so I stressed that Face is to refrain entirely from what the hell? and no shit, sherlock. Face agreed. At least, I was pretty sure.

Tonight's class seems well-attended. The college-girl from last week is missing, but Joan and Valerie have returned. An actress friend of Annette's is trying the class for the first time. Three young ladies who appear Asian or possibly Indonesian arrive together. I try to learn their names, but I grew up in white-bread America, and their responses fall upon a dunce's ears. After I ask one of them to repeat her name three consecutive time, she resorts to spelling it, which helps me. The three ladies are friendly to all of us, but also stick together. Wearing their identical brand-new Mary Jane tap shoes, they congregate at one end of the room, finding much to laugh about. Annette dubs them her Giggling Girlies.

Class begins with lots of Shuffles as warm-ups. I thought I had cured the balancing problem in the previous class, but I discover I am still overbalancing whenever we switch feet. frustration… disapproval… impatience… Valerie happens to glance my way. Face! I quickly form what feels like a broad smile. A glance at the pernicious mirror reveals an angry bald guy with the corners of his mouth tightened unnaturally.

We move on to Flap and Heel. Flap makes two sounds, so Annette pronounces it, "Fuh-lap." With these simple steps, Annette introduces the concept of traveling across the floor while tap dancing. To music, we Fuh-lap Heel, Fuh-lap Heel toward the wall ahead of us. Hey, I can do this without falling over! surprise… satisfaction.

We cross the room side by side. As we get close to touching the mirror, Annette calls, "Same thing, backwards!" confusion… consternation… resentment… Wait, it turns out I can do this one, too! Face! I set my expression on pleasant just before Annette looks my way. Phew! Close one.

Toward the end of the hour the exercises grow more complex. Annette adds Ball-Change to Flap and Heel, then mixes them together. The class finishes an exercise and straggles along the wall with the barres on it. We're all a tad winded. Well, not Joan, but the rest of us are. Okay, actually, the Giggling Girls seem fine. What I mean is, except for Annette, Valerie, Joan, and the Giggling Girls, everyone else seems kinda tired. Crap, it's just me.

Up until now, the exercises have been pretty simple; not much more than mannered walking. Annette says, "Watch while I demo the next exercise." She calls out the steps as she performs them: "Shuf-fle-Step, Shuf-fle-Step, Fuh-lap Heel, Fuh-lap Heel, Step to the right, cross behind, Step to the right, Stamp. Then the same thing in the reverse direction. Got it?"

incredulity… desperation… disapproval…

Her big brown eyes find me. They narrow. "Do you have a question?"

Face! Face! Everyone looks at me. I go for contrite but only manage bug-eyed. "Me? Um, no!"

"Okay. Then let's try it." She puts the music on. Funk guitar fills the room: it's Prince's "Musicology."

Annette turns her back to us so that our right is her right, our left is her left. "Five, six, seven, AND --"

My eyes watch her feet the way a drowning man watches for his end of the rescue line. I try to lift the twin anvils on the ends of my legs. Shuf-fle-Step, Shuf-fle-Step -- what the heck came next? Fuh-lap Heel, Fuh-lap Heel, Fuh-lap Heel, Fuh-lap … wait a second, what is she doing? That's not what she demo'd!

The sound of "implacable army marching" disintegrates into the sound of "dithering ninnies scampering." Annette royally blew it. disapproval… rebuke….

"Sorry!" Annette calls. She rushes to the CD player and stops the music. For each class, she custom-tailors her exercises to the class's ability, improvising on the spot. This is a far superior approach to teachers who have an inflexible curriculum and march everyone through it regardless of results. But this time, Annette forgot what she'd just made up.

This can't feel good to her. I stare hard at the floor, not trusting Face to adhere to our pre-class agreements. I honestly do not want to put Annette in a poor light by seeming disapproving in front of the class. Some of the students know that Annette and I have been married a long time, and they shoot glances at me. I think I feel Valerie's eyes on me again. Face! neutral.

Meanwhile, Annette rehearses the steps to herself in quiet triple-time and gets them straight. "Okay, here we go again!" she laughs, and Prince obliges.

Absorbed in my petty internal drama, I'm not ready. The next few seconds go by at super-speed, like the Keystone Kops charging around in a flickering Mack Sennett movie:

Shuf-fle-Step, Shuf-fle-Step (what's next?) worry Fuh-lap-Heel, Fuh-lap-Heel, relief Step to the right, Step to the (doh! I was supposed to cross over!) self-hatred Face! Face! (oops, falling behind) ShuffleStepShuffleStep (don't crush Joan) panic Face! (dodge Joan) FuhlapHeelFuhlapHeel, Step to the left, cross behind ha! Step to the left (left foot slides on slippery spot) what the hell? Face! Face! Face! Stamp.

And they call this dancing.

I see Valerie looking at me again. I have no idea what Face is doing. Disgusted with that traitor, I have cut off diplomatic ties. Later, at home, Annette informs me that Valerie is a psychotherapist.

Somehow class was not very fun this week. no shit, sherlock. ##

Thanks and love to Lisa for coining Face! Face! Face!