Line Dancing 101-02
Part 2 of a 3-part series
Unfortunately for me, after making it back from Houston I did not follow through on my homework assignment due to more important projects and goals to accomplish. My passion for learning the latest line dances would need to take a back seat so I could focus on my move to Houston. This also meant I wouldn’t be able to get my private investigator on in Southern California for these dances.
Fast forward 90 days and I have yet to complete any line-dancing homework, I am now in Oklahoma City for a brief period. The floods right around June 14 put me there a little longer than expected, but it allowed me to strike up an interesting round-table discussion with my mom.
Note: Our roundtables are unique to the Brown family. It might take the family back to vintage memories such as water fights in Broadway Park; that time when my brother had to save me from my own “River Wild” incident in the neighborhood creek or one of the many events that took place in the “BWP.”
I don’t recall how the conversation started, but however it went, my mom recounted how she and my dad attended the annual Potentate Ball. As a child, I remember the two of them dressed to the nines on two different occasions – the New Year’s Eve party at the Grenadier and the annual Potentate Ball.
I was pulled to it. She ran down the list of popular people who attended, individuals whom I had not seen since before I enlisted in the armed forces. She spoke of the sharp tuxedos, the beautiful dresses and last – the highlight of the evening for her – the Nobles.
She loved how the Nobles would ride!
“Nobles riding?” I gave a blank stare.
“Yes,” she replied. “They ride.”
The picture she painted for me was of several men, dressed in elaborate costumes and sometimes carrying the Potentate on a large mass – something of royalty. After hearing the rather descriptive story about what the Shriners do at the ball, I just had to check it out. My mom’s favorite part was of course watching the Nobles ride.
Three weeks moved on rather quickly. I broke out one of my black after-five dresses, a few accessories and gave the nails and feet some special treatment. The annual Potentate Ball in OKC would also serve as the end of my hiatus of refusing to be the digital-camera operator. I broke out my Nikon point and shoot and my D70s and prepared for the evening.
I wasn’t ready for what was in store nor was I ready for the dance floor, but it didn’t dawn on me until I arrived at the event. I wore the wrong shoes – a platform heel that I had to remind myself how to walk in and then it was an older crowd, mixed but older. Who would I dance with? How would I dance? The line dances?
The hiding behind the camera commenced. I snapped photo after photo; talked to a few people, even got reacquainted with a gentleman whom I went to church with years ago.
I was having a good time so much so that I even took time for some artistic shots of the event – cherished memories for whomever I’d share them with.
The Nobles rode. I loved every bit of it. And one in particular seemed to gravitate to my camera. I’d say he put a little oomf – if I can, on his moves as he rode in with his fellow Nobles. I even managed to get a photo of him looking directly into my lens.
I’d like to think he was flirting with me and not the camera. Either way, it made me look even better as a photographer to capture such an image.
Once the Nobles rode, the dancing was underway.
I still managed to find multiple images to take. More images meant I would stay away from the dance floor, especially after seeing that I had to sit on the sidelines and watch my mother and a family friend do the “Cupid Shuffle.”
The Cupid Shuffle, I did not know – heard it, never danced it. My three back surgeries in 2009 were partially to blame for being out of the loop and well, I’d like to blame other things.
For now, we will just let the blame rest with the rapid change of pop culture and my ability to move that quick.
I snapped photos of the shuffle. I was embarrassed yet again. A usual socialite and one who loved to dance unable to cut-a-rug with anyone.
More snaps.
This had to stop. If I expected to keep up with the latest club goers and reclaim my youth at 30, I had to learn a dance or two.
Here was my reality check – fashionably sound, reasonably fit to dance to a four or five-minute song but lacked the dance moves or the motivation to give it a try.
I took well over 200 photos that night and had one dance that evening. Since I couldn’t do the line dances like my mother, the camera captivator or the family friend, my dance moves remained at a sassy two-step.
I couldn’t go wrong with that.
