The Dance Audition

Stacy, in Fort Lauderdale, put me in touch with a local dance instructor for my dance audition. Now even though I once taught ballroom dancing, that was more than fifty years ago. And although I have a reputation as a good dancer, that may be built on myth (which I admit to having perpetuated) as much as on practice. I hadn't danced in some time either. So it was with some trepidation that I approached the appointed time for my audition with Grazina. One other thing bothered me. Stacy's printed material specified leather-soled shoes for dancing but I hadn't worn anything but Crocs for many years. Could I dance in them? And what would Grazina report if I showed up for my audition in Crocs?
Nervously, I set out for my audition. I had to wear Crocs; I have no other shoes (except for some sneaker-type ones, which would be even worse). I decided that if Grazina asked about my Crocs, I'd just tell her I wore them so much of the time that I 'd forgotten to bring any other shoes, a little fib I decided my conscience would permit. Driving to a dance studio in the wilds of Ellicott City, I felt a little like a cross between Gypsy - "...light the lights; you've got nothing to hit but the heights," and a tryout for "Chorus Line" - "I need this job; I really need this job."
Grazina turned out to be the daughter of a Russian emigre - I wonder why all serious ballroom dancers seem to be Russian - probably in her mid fifties, shorter than me and blonde, with a strange manner of speech, an unusual mixture of curiosity and matter-of-factness with a flavor of seriousness under it all. "Oh. You must be Phil. Give me just a minute to set up. Which dance do you want to do first?" Although she didn't mention my Crocs, she changed into some little ballerina slippers herself, securing them with rubber bands around her foot. She got right to it. We opted for a fox trot first, the dance I'll probably be called upon to perform the most. As we were dancing, I could see she was paying attention to everything: posture, lead, breathing, as well as the steps themselves, which she identified in a whispery kind of voice each time I shifted into a new step. "Yes. Left turn. Okay, box. Conversation." It was a little unnerving, searching my memory for patterns learned long ago and translating them into foot movements, all with ongoing commentary. When the song ended, we shifted into waltz, then rumba. I was pleased to find that I could still do rumba motion with my hips and knees even with a left knee replacement. When the rumba ended, I opted next for swing, with steps I was confident I could remember. That went well. And then the cha cha, my weakest dance. After a few stumbles, she told me I was doing progressive steps, front to back and back to front instead of the basic side to side. I tried to do it her way but what little groove was left in my memory was so deep I couldn't climb out to perform the steps her way. We stopped. "Um-hum," she said, noncommitally. She asked me to sit down while she filled out the evaluation sheet. She asked many questions unrelated to dancing and then got to the evaluation part. I could see she was hesitant to be too hard on me, making ratings and then erasing them to give me a better score. And then the audition was over. I paid her for her time and she agreed to send me a copy of her remarks. On the way home, I wondered how I could tell my friends that after having this sterling reputation for dancing for so long, I had failed the dance audition. Oh well, unlike in Chorus Line, I didn't really need this job.
During the audition, when Grazina had asked me about my family and why I had decided to apply now for this host gig, I mentioned that my mom had just died, freeing me now to travel more extensively. A few days later I received a card from Grazina, a folder of the highest quality white paper with a beautiful Ilfachrome photograph of a red rose pasted on the front. Inside, Grazina expressed her "...deepest sympathy on the passing..." of my mother. I was very surprised. She wasn't just a Russian ballroom dancer after all.