Lindy Exposed

Swing dancing, or really any social activity, is an exercise in projected self-confidence, social awareness, and a small degree of logistical competence.

This could easily turn into a long treatise about swing dancing, a rather odd passion that has since my first introduction to it as a Freshman in college played a tremendous, even defining role in my personal and social evolution, but rather than waxing apoetically about a hobby which fuses physicality, creativity, and socialization, I'd rather talk about those wonderous moments when the formulae breaks down.

Let's take last Thursday, for example.

Like most major metropolitan cities, New York has a vibrant swing scene.  There are a number of good venues offering swing dancing of one sort or another virtually every night of the week, and while some are more specialized than others in whatever niche dance they feel most attached to - blues, balboa, "jitterbug," etc. - the footwork and the demographics are the only differences.  They all still require social dancing (i.e. not with a formal/regular partner), a degree of training, and either a commitment to having a good time, or it's unfortunate substitute, the smug awareness of one's own stature/abilities and the desire to demonstrate them.

Me, I'm a Frammer.  It's probably a term I just coined this moment, but what it implies would be familiar to most New York dancers.  I attend Fram, or more formally, the "Frim Fram Jam," a weekly dance hosted by Yehoodi.com, which is both simultaneously a national (even international) Lindy Hop web-forum and also the closest approximation I can find for what in any other city would be the standard "(your city here) Swing Dance Society."  That is, they put on dances, host workshops, encourage new dancers and inform current dancers about other dance opportunities.  Though the name "NYSDS" is otherwise occupied, Yehoodi seems to more appropriate fulfill the convention, to my understanding.

As a "Frammer" I would be understood to be primarily a Lindy Hopper (someone who's main dance is the 8-count step/step/tripple-step pattern that evolved from the Charleston in the Savory ballroom and owes its modern lineage notably to Franky Manning), and other demographic information would suggest that I live in Manhattan or its close environs, that I am generally under 50, and that (to be blunt) I am white.

It also suggests that I am open to other dances (charleston, balboa, shag, etc.), that I enjoy dancing with a plethora of strangers, and perhaps that I don't mind extremely crowded dance floors.  It might even say something about my musical tastes, but Fram is just varied enough to preclude any certainties in that regard (unlike my former venue in Austin, the Fed, which carries 

very clear stylistic biases in its music - biases I happen to enjoy).

So there I am - a Frammer at Fram - in extremely tight quaters with about 150 strangers crammed into a rectangular dance studio on the corner of 31st and 8th Avenue just past midnight on a Thursday evening.  I've been making the rounds, saying hello and getting in dances with the minority of follows (girls) who I actually recognize, and trying not-too-hard to remember the names of new follows I met for the first time.

The evening is not over for Fram, but it is for me.  My general tiredness combined with the crowd, the heat, my next day's schedule and a string of music I found less-than-inspiring has moved me to quit the day a good 45 minutes before the venue shuts down.  

The process for leaving is as dogmatic as everything else thus far in the post.  I first change shirts - I sweat as much or more than any other dancer I know.  It's not that sexy, well-oiled look, it's more like desperately pasty with a touch of awkward.  In addition to the freeze-danger of stepping outside in such a state, there is also concern for my appearance (and odor) on the public transport back home.

Having revised my wardrobe to something less caustic, the next step is to change shoes - this 

time not for reasons of odor, but purpose.  My dance shoes are home-made, meaning they have soft leather glued to the bottom.  In order to keep this leather intact and slippery, it must be kept away from the grime and grit of the real world.  "Don't Walk Outside in Your Dance Shoes" is one of the fundamental rules of Lindy Hop, perhaps even on par with "The Follow is Always 

Right," and "BOUNCE!" (which in my opinion must be screamed, hence the caps).

The next steps include saying goodbye to any friends remaining, then bundling into the manifold layers required to survive the walk to the subway station, and finally exiting.

But wait - New Shirt, New Shoes - Sudden Disturbance.

Something isn't right.  

My pants, it occurs to me as I slip one arm into a front-zip sweater, are feeling a little loose.  I put in the other arm, and upon glancing down to start zipping up the sweater, face the black horror of my own open crotch looking back at me, unblinking like the eye of Sauron.

It is in instances such as this, when nothing is on the line but one's own ego, that certain thoughts drop from your cultivated modern intellect like wet dough on the kitchen floor.

"shit!"

Now what?  I'd like to say that I handled it smoothly.  That I kept zipping up my sweater with an air of relaxed confidence before calmly turning around to grab my backpack, and in the process bending over and deftly zipping up with my other hand.

I'd like to say that, but truthfully it took me 2 days just to think of that solution.  

No, at the time of the event, my overtaxed cranium regressed about as far as possible.  I didn't quite shout out, "Holy Cow, My fly's unzipped" before reaching down in a great show and zipping in such a hurry as to cause bodily harm.  It wasn't that bad, but if my girlfriend had walked past at the exact moment, I might well have slugged her over the head with a large club and dragged her home.  

What I'm saying is, it wasn't very good either.

Sweater abandoned in mid-zip, both eyebrows raised and my mouth suspiciously, though not subtley, ajar, I just stared downward as my fingers fiddled with the dark abyss that was gazing out from my jeans, searching for the mischevious metal tag that was hiding down in the deep recesses of my denim.  Once acquired, I practically ripped the zipper skywards, unconsciously lifting my body upwards in imitation of its progress, then sheepishly returning my not-quite-shaking hands to my sweater and their original purpose.

There I was, completely clothed for the first time all night, and in utter shock; a black hole of personal confidence, or to be even more melodramatic, "More naked metaphorically than I had ever been physically."

Emergency averted, my ego returned with a flood of useless but damning retrospection.  How long Had the barn door been open?  My 45 minute subway ride to the venue? Paying at the front door (the cashier is seated, thus at "zipper level")?  All those dances, meeting friends, strangers, and the majority of familiars floating between both definitions?  Sporting my moves on the floor, cavalierly asking people to dance, and treating the space between us (or lack thereof) as casually as ever?

How many people had noticed?  I conceded probably not a lot, both because of the extreme crowding and because, honestly, how often is a man's crotch inspected?  Still, the odds of it going entirely missed seemed low.  

And how creepy is it for a guy to ask you to dance with an open crotch?  That sounds Grade-A creeptastic to me.  But wouldn't someone say something, even to a stranger?  

"Ahem, is it a little breezy in here?"  

"Did you Ever see the Broadway musical X-Y-Z?"

"Hi, my name is Crotch- I mean Karen."

"Nice Pants."

"ZIPPER!"

Anything?

Apparently not.

I came home a humbled man.

And then I wrote about it.

Weber

::(lame) Texpatriot