Shucking Fuffles
Because I began tap dancing as a joke, I felt no obligation to practice between classes. Now, with poetic justice, I'm caught in my own prank: I care about getting good. After ten lessons, it vexes me that I still can't get through that opening Shuffle exercise without stopping to catch my balance. And I'm intrigued to see if working little will solve the problem. In my fourth month of taking tap dance lessons, I finally break down and do the previously unthinkable: I practice on my Own Time.
One Thursday night, with Annette at the studio teaching advanced tappers, I find myself alone at home. I push the unwashed dinner dishes out of the way and haul the Kaboom Box to the kitchen counter. I sit at a table spilling over with junk mail, and change into my tap shoes. Expecting this will not be pretty, I steel myself to the task, even if it means I will murder Tap. I possess both the motive and the opportunity, like a rejected suspect from Clue: Colonel Fat Man, in the kitchen, with a pair of shoes.
In the big glass sliding door leading to the night-shrouded backyard, I can see a ghostly reflection of myself. I throw "Hard Hearted Hannah" into the Kaboom Box and ready myself: toes turned out, knees bent slightly, shoulders leaning forward, eyes fastened on the ghost feet in the reflection. There's the cue, and I launch into the seven opening Shuffles with ease. On the eighth beat comes the Step and the shift of weight, so I can repeat the Shuffles with my other foot, and -- dammit! My ever-retarded left foot taps the floor on the way out but misses on the way back. Annette calls these "Air Shuffles." I can't believe I messed up this early in the exercise. I stop the music. I start over.
As the intro plays out, I coach myself by recalling the night I danced better by being mad at the floor. I remind myself to work little. Shrink those Shuffles! Go! I make it through the seven opening Shuffles, as I usually do; Step on the eighth beat, shift weight, and perform the seven left-foot Shuffles flawlessly. I make it through all the forward Shuffles and halfway through the side Shuffles before I teeter and have to miss a couple of beats while I catch my balance. OK, this is an improvement. I have all night. I can do this. Keep going.
In the middle of the song, I hear Ella wail, "...Is like travelin' through Alaska in your BVDs." Hey, what is this song about, anyway? Every time it comes on, I get busy throwing my weight around -- literally. I've heard the songs a dozen times now, but I haven't absorbed a single lyric. I finish the Shuffle exercise. Then I sit on a kitchen stool and play the song again, just listening to the words. Minutes later I snap out of it, realizing I'm indulging in classic avoidance behavior. C'mon, no distractions! We are going to master those Shuffles!
I start the song again, and immediately misfire three Air Shuffles. Stop. Focus. It's the landlord's floor, scuff it all you want. As Annette says so dramatically, lay down some steel!
Begin again. This time I make it through all the forward Shuffles, all the side Shuffles, and the first seven back Shuffles before I get lost. Cool! Working little really helps!
I make it through "Hard Hearted Hannah" a third time. I might have all night, but my legs don't. When I stand on either foot, the weight-bearing leg trembles. My outside thigh muscles burn, right under my hip bones, presumably from the effort of keeping my bouncing baby belly in check. By the end of the third run-through, I am sweating, panting, and quivering. I collapse onto the stool and gulp water.
"Hard Hearted Hannah" is a short song. I have been dancing less than ten minutes. Cor blimey, all this just from those shucking Fuffles?
All right. So I won't master the Shuffles tonight. I made good progress. Now that I know about this wizardly secret called "practicing," it's just a matter of time. You win this round, Shuffles, but you haven't seen the last of me!
I start chuckling. My empty threat aimed at Shuffles reminds me of a crude moment from Sealab 2021. In Episode 7, "Little Orphan Angry," a cute orphan boy feigns a terminal illness so he can visit Sealab's underwater base as his "dying wish." He relentlessly guilts Sealab's crew into serving his every selfish whim, because he's "dying." When Captain Murphy discovers that it's all a scam, he jumps into a golf cart and chases the fleeing orphan down Sealab's steel corridors. Murphy finally runs over the orphan. Stops. Backs the golf cart over the orphan. Stops. Runs over the orphan. Stops. Backs over the orphan. Stops. Runs over ... This repeats endlessly while gratuitous gallons of cartoon blood splash up from the bottom of the screen. Eventually, in his Oliver Twist accent, the mangled orphan begins (from under the golf cart wheels), "All right, you win this round, old man--" Murphy interrupts, "Well duh!"
Somehow, I don't think the Shuffles are afraid of me. Swearing vengeance on an enemy who doesn't know you exist is certainly quixotic. But then again, so is taking up a ridiculous hobby and moving from ironic detachment to personal investment.
The bad news: I am an existential joke. The other news: At least I write my own material. ##
One Thursday night, with Annette at the studio teaching advanced tappers, I find myself alone at home. I push the unwashed dinner dishes out of the way and haul the Kaboom Box to the kitchen counter. I sit at a table spilling over with junk mail, and change into my tap shoes. Expecting this will not be pretty, I steel myself to the task, even if it means I will murder Tap. I possess both the motive and the opportunity, like a rejected suspect from Clue: Colonel Fat Man, in the kitchen, with a pair of shoes.
In the big glass sliding door leading to the night-shrouded backyard, I can see a ghostly reflection of myself. I throw "Hard Hearted Hannah" into the Kaboom Box and ready myself: toes turned out, knees bent slightly, shoulders leaning forward, eyes fastened on the ghost feet in the reflection. There's the cue, and I launch into the seven opening Shuffles with ease. On the eighth beat comes the Step and the shift of weight, so I can repeat the Shuffles with my other foot, and -- dammit! My ever-retarded left foot taps the floor on the way out but misses on the way back. Annette calls these "Air Shuffles." I can't believe I messed up this early in the exercise. I stop the music. I start over.
As the intro plays out, I coach myself by recalling the night I danced better by being mad at the floor. I remind myself to work little. Shrink those Shuffles! Go! I make it through the seven opening Shuffles, as I usually do; Step on the eighth beat, shift weight, and perform the seven left-foot Shuffles flawlessly. I make it through all the forward Shuffles and halfway through the side Shuffles before I teeter and have to miss a couple of beats while I catch my balance. OK, this is an improvement. I have all night. I can do this. Keep going.
In the middle of the song, I hear Ella wail, "...Is like travelin' through Alaska in your BVDs." Hey, what is this song about, anyway? Every time it comes on, I get busy throwing my weight around -- literally. I've heard the songs a dozen times now, but I haven't absorbed a single lyric. I finish the Shuffle exercise. Then I sit on a kitchen stool and play the song again, just listening to the words. Minutes later I snap out of it, realizing I'm indulging in classic avoidance behavior. C'mon, no distractions! We are going to master those Shuffles!
I start the song again, and immediately misfire three Air Shuffles. Stop. Focus. It's the landlord's floor, scuff it all you want. As Annette says so dramatically, lay down some steel!
Begin again. This time I make it through all the forward Shuffles, all the side Shuffles, and the first seven back Shuffles before I get lost. Cool! Working little really helps!
I make it through "Hard Hearted Hannah" a third time. I might have all night, but my legs don't. When I stand on either foot, the weight-bearing leg trembles. My outside thigh muscles burn, right under my hip bones, presumably from the effort of keeping my bouncing baby belly in check. By the end of the third run-through, I am sweating, panting, and quivering. I collapse onto the stool and gulp water.
"Hard Hearted Hannah" is a short song. I have been dancing less than ten minutes. Cor blimey, all this just from those shucking Fuffles?
All right. So I won't master the Shuffles tonight. I made good progress. Now that I know about this wizardly secret called "practicing," it's just a matter of time. You win this round, Shuffles, but you haven't seen the last of me!
I start chuckling. My empty threat aimed at Shuffles reminds me of a crude moment from Sealab 2021. In Episode 7, "Little Orphan Angry," a cute orphan boy feigns a terminal illness so he can visit Sealab's underwater base as his "dying wish." He relentlessly guilts Sealab's crew into serving his every selfish whim, because he's "dying." When Captain Murphy discovers that it's all a scam, he jumps into a golf cart and chases the fleeing orphan down Sealab's steel corridors. Murphy finally runs over the orphan. Stops. Backs the golf cart over the orphan. Stops. Runs over the orphan. Stops. Backs over the orphan. Stops. Runs over ... This repeats endlessly while gratuitous gallons of cartoon blood splash up from the bottom of the screen. Eventually, in his Oliver Twist accent, the mangled orphan begins (from under the golf cart wheels), "All right, you win this round, old man--" Murphy interrupts, "Well duh!"
Somehow, I don't think the Shuffles are afraid of me. Swearing vengeance on an enemy who doesn't know you exist is certainly quixotic. But then again, so is taking up a ridiculous hobby and moving from ironic detachment to personal investment.
The bad news: I am an existential joke. The other news: At least I write my own material. ##
posted by ScottPinzonTest at 1:17 PM
2 Comments:
Awesome! Once you start practicing, you are on the road to success! Speaking as one who got more than her share of odd looks from coworkers who caught me practicing cuban motion (a Latin dance movement of the legs and hips) in the company break room while waiting for my lunch to cook in the microwave, I can attest that Doing It Outside Class makes a huge difference. The human brain isn't wired to learn with only one lesson a week. Just adding half an hour once a week -- ideally, about 3 days away from your lesson -- will make a big difference.
I so enjoy this blog, thank you for sharing your frustrations and achievements with us all!
It took me 20 minutes to read your 5 minutes worth of material because I kept laughing and relaughing at the title. Shucking Fuffles? That is some Shad Bit, Baby!
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