Don’t just stand there…

I’ve always liked Arabian Nights-style movies – mysterious girls with dark eyes and honey skin… I’ve always liked Arabian Nights-style movies – mysterious girls with dark eyes and honey skin and lots of mystery. So when I saw the ad for the free belly-dancing seminar, I got excited, although I actually have pasty-white skin and blue eyes. Never mind the fact that I look a little more Aryan than Arabian – it was time to broaden my horizons.

As I entered the lower lounge, girls were littered over the gray chairs. There was an array of jeans and sneakers, sweatpants and T-shirts, but a total lack of any sort of face veil or harem pants. I was in good company in my own black pants and T-shirt.

The only problem was the stares I elicited as I walked in with the photographer and my notepad. Most girls looked suspicious about being photographed while gyrating around the room. I wasn’t sure that I could blame them.

The two instructors stood at the front of the room, looking like a toned-down version of my belly-dancing ideals, minus the bells or veils.

Claire Litton had long dark pigtails she wore over her ears. Elizabeth Howard also had dark hair she pulled back in a ponytail. Both women had balloon-shaped pants topped with colorful scarves and trailing off into bare feet.

They called out, “You guys will need to take off your shoes and socks,” saying that any forthcoming smell was not their responsibility.

I joined the group in the center of the room, the rug scratchy and a little sticky on my bare feet. Let the belly dancing begin.

We started by learning simple hip movements, side to side, front and back. The feeling of my hips being slightly disconnected from the rest of my torso was almost as disconcerting as the flash coming from the camera. I had images in my head of me in the paper, pictured with my hips swiveling, tongue sticking out in concentration. Very disturbing.

We finally progressed to full hip circles and we were on our own. As the instructors walked around the room, they called out small hints.

“Keep you knees bent and your shoulders straight.”

“No tilting the pelvis.”

Trying to do it all at once, everything went stiff. With my knees bent and my torso rigid, I began to feel a like a broken dashboard hula dancer. My thighs began to burn and my arms felt heavy. This wasn’t quite what I had thought; no mystery and intrigue here.

But after what seemed like an eternity of awkward circles, I had the move down. As Litton came around she looked at me, smiling.

“Are you sure you haven’t done this before?” I was feeling like the belly-dancing queen. Break out the bells and veils, I felt ready for the pros. But this was not to last: We had to change direction.

As people got more comfortable, the comments got more specific. A woman near the back of the group, hips and butt in full swing earned a “No J-Lo” from Litton. Another woman was grooving and had moved her legs a little too far apart. Things were looking steamy, when I heard from the instructor.

“Make sure you keep your legs close together, otherwise you look like you’re looking for a pole,” Litton demonstrated.

We progressed through the moves to hip bumps, which are the “slam the car door closed with your hands full of groceries” move. These were easy, but even here there was a danger.

“Your butt is going to flap like nobody’s business,” Litton said. The moves continued into the night until our time was up.

As we stretched out, Litton and Howard asked if we wanted to see them dance. In the next few minutes a vibrant mix of voices and instruments came on the boom box, filling the lounge. Litton and Howard circled around the room, shimmying and swaying, their hips seemingly completely separate from their torsos. Their arms flowed through the air, up on tiptoes then down until the music ceased. Handing us flyers explaining extra moves and talking about their own dance troupe, Khafif, the instructors wished us well.

“What we taught you guys today, it builds and it becomes dancing,” Howard said.

There seemed to be a lot that I needed to build. But leaving the class with my thighs and stomach sore, I felt a little of that mystery and intrigue. Holding the flier, I headed toward my home. After all, there was still time to dig out a scarf or two and learn a shoulder shimmy.