Something happens to me in class when it’s my turn to do solo footwork: All social grace and language etiquette goes out the window the moment I trip over my feet, and I begin swearing like a sailor.
I’ve dropped more F-bombs in the last two years than I have in my entire life, I think. I don’t know what it is. I mean, it makes sense that I’ll curse under my breath at work because, well, it’s work. But I love dance class. I can’t wait to go there every Thursday and Saturday. And I love everyone there. Yet whenever I go, it’s like I develop a sudden case of flamenco-induced Tourette’s Syndrome and the expletives immediately start rolling off my tongue.
It starts with a Crap!. Then there are the Damn it!s. Followed by the Sh&*!s. Then the moment I botch up my build-up, the incessant F*@K!s become inevitable.
I try to be ladylike. I really do. But I can’t help it. When I’m super passionate about my work and feeling unsuccessful at it, I get very frustrated and angry at myself. Especially in flamenco class when all eyes are on me and I want so badly to do my steps perfectly.
So, while my escobilla isn’t quite up to snuff, I’ve just about perfected my profane interjections.
My deepest apologies to my teacher and classmates if I made you want to cover your ears. I’ll try harder to keep my potty mouth shut.
Married to the Dance 