October 22, 2018

I’m a dancer. That’s a statement of fact, and yet quite a statement to make. You see, I’m relatively new to dance — five years in. Compared to the lithe creatures I regularly encounter on the dance floor (more than one of whom were professional ballerinas in a prior life), I’m a neophyte.

In addition, I’m terrified of dance. But I do it anyway. And I’m getting better all the time. I love it. I love Argentine Tango.

I love drinking too. I love wine. I love cocktails. I love the excitement and ceremony, the special tools, the way time drops away, the way evening light looks more golden after a couple of sips of a nicely balanced cocktail.

I love the license it gives to relax.

I love the pretty glasses, the colors of the liquors, the fun cocktail names, the histories behind them.

The sound of ice clinking in the glass, in the shaker. The feel of a giant ice cube against my top lip.

I love the garnishes. I love watching the (preferably sexy) bartender grab the peeler and pull a thick strip of lemon peel toward him or her as the lemon exhales its oils, minute droplets perfuming the air.

I love the mint muddled in the bottom of a mojito.

The silky, dark cherry in a Manhattan.

Even the silly paper umbrellas.

And wine! Don’t get me going. Yes, yes. Same kind of list. I love the names of the grapes, the romance of the harvest, the continuity, the history. I love the idea and experience of terroir, the concept of tasting limestone or slate, chocolate or mushrooms, the sexy color of wine, the silky viscosity of wine, the sublime taste of wine.

I love finding deals on wine.

And having recently discovered the incredible wine selection at Grocery Outlet, it’s a terrible time to quit my love affair with wine. With drinking.

But.

Drinking has taught me something about tango. And tango has taught me something about drinking.

You see, we drink with friends ostensibly because it’s fun. It lowers barriers. There’s a mythology that it makes us feel closer to our friends and relations, imparts a kind of bonhomie to strangers, to humanity. But does it?

I argued this point with a boyfriend several years ago. I was concerned about his drinking. On our first date, he had at least two glasses of wine and then began ordering whiskey. It was a Tuesday.

I was alarmed.

As a child of alcoholism, I’m acutely aware of drinking. My own, and others. I’m always measuring, counting, converting, and monitoring my and others’ consumption of alcohol.

I’m lucky. My body won’t let me over-imbibe. Especially as I’m getting older, my body vociferously lets me know when enough is enough. In a way, this is nice. I’m a cheap date, that’s for sure. Since I can really have only one glass of wine or one cocktail with no serious ill effect, I can choose something nice. I won’t wreck the bill by ordering a second or God forbid a third glass.

After I got to know him, and to notice how important drinking was to my boyfriend, I began nudging him. I asked him about his drinking. Why do you drink? How do you feel when you drink? Do you feel like it separates you from people? Do you feel weird talking to your kids after a couple of drinks?

To my surprise — or maybe not, because this is something we often hear — he said, no, on the contrary, he loved drinking because it made him feel closer to his loved ones.

I looked askance at that. I thought, maybe he thinks that’s true, but it couldn’t possibly be true.

I had to allow though that it’s quite possible that drinking affects others differently than it affects me.

But, when people say, “takes the edge off,” what do they mean?

Taking the edge off means just that — alcohol can soften things, soften one’s experience of life. The problem is, it doesn’t discriminate. While it might be nice to take the edge off an argument or a failed project at work or a spate of boredom, do we really want to sand away our awareness when witnessing our child’s first steps? Do we want to feel fuzzy when our father takes our hand? When a friend needs help? When a star shoots across the heavens? Or do we want to feel sharp? Alert? Aware? Awake?

Last night, I went dancing. I had dinner first, and I didn’t go home for dinner. I didn’t want to get stuck there. I knew I’d begin cooking, twilight would come, Sunday night would close in, I’d feel bereft about leaving the house again. So, after seeing my dad, I treated myself to a burger and a glass of garnacha down the street. One glass of Spanish wine. With a delicious burger and fries.

I had a glass of water too.

I read Grace Paley. And then I went to my milonga.

Wouldn’t you know it, wine takes the edge off dance too.

I had noticed this before. I’ve spoken to people about it.

I don’t know why I thought I could drink wine and then go dancing.

For Argentine tango, first of all, you need as-perfect-as-possible balance. I’ve noticed that even two sips of wine can affect my balance.

But more surprising, and more subtle, and more interesting, and the reason I am attempting to write this article, is what wine did to me last night emotionally, and in terms of my connection with others.

The special thing about Argentine tango is that it’s a leader-follower dance that is completely improvised. There are no step-sequences. There is no way to go on automatic pilot. To be a halfway-decent tanguera (female tango dancer), you must have all of your senses marshaled and attuned to the briefest, most subtle changes in your partner.

More importantly, you must be able to receive these signals in real time. No delay. They must be transmitted through the skin, through the air, through ether. There is not time for it to go to the brain. It is like telepathy this way, which is why many people liken tango to meditation. When it’s working, you drop into an exquisite zone of awareness. A force field awaiting direction.

Alcohol obscures this.

It drops a curtain on this transmission.

It inserts a delay.

It devastates the dance.

Last night, that glass of garnacha caused me to mis-read numerous cues. It caused me to hesitate, move slowly, second-guess. Execute the move poorly and imprecisely. Or to miss the cue entirely.

It obliterated subtlety.

I was a terrible partner.

And it makes me wonder…

What is this pain of life we flinch from?

Is it pain or pleasure we flinch from?

Why should it be painful rather than pleasurable to engage fully with another human?

The fact is, it is painful. And deeply pleasurable. And terrifying. And embarrassing. And wonderful.

But why?

It must be about shame. We are afraid to be seen and recognized fully. We are also afraid to see and fully recognize another. We keep some kind of gauze between us. Some kind of curtain. Why? So we don’t have to be responsible for that person? Are we afraid if we open up completely, the other will glom onto us, melt into us, never let us go? Are we afraid we will be suffocated?

I think for me, yes. There is something to this stream of thoughts and questions.

I’m a terrific commita-phobe. I dance Argentine tango to tangle with this issue, hoping for healing of a sort. If I can give myself totally to this person for the nine-minute span of a tanda (the series of four songs you dance with one partner in a row), maybe I can grow from there. Baby steps.

Argentine tango is all about trust. To do it right and well, you must surrender to your partner. Any holding back will destroy the dance. It will destroy the momentum, the progression, the creativity, the freedom, and the beauty of the dance.

As will alcohol. Alcohol gives us the gloves we need to protect ourselves from life’s thorns. And it works. We can hum along in our little bubble, safe from prying eyes, questions, intuition, awareness. Safe from messages from the universe, coincidences, magic. Safe from ourselves, from pain, from anguish, memory, regret, fear.

And safe from the sublime.