Instead, I'm little, and my legs are passed directly from my mother, whose father was German. I have a huge mouth. My hair often takes a life of its own and if I don't mold it with an ever-changing and expanding list of products, I look depressingly horrific. Moreover, my fingers are short and my nails break easily and it's basically impossible for me to find pants with the proper inseam unless they are classified as "petite" or "short." Which I guess classifies me, too, but I often still cannot wear petite or short pants with flats. These are not qualities that I imagine when I hear the word "delicate." Instead, I imagine words like "cute," "tiny," "adorable." "Small." (Appropriate, since Tony's most common nickname for me is Small, or Smally, as well as many variations.)
Tony called my lithe, once. It was in the beginning. I was lying on my bed, my arm bent at the elbow, fingertips brushing my clavicle. My head was turned toward him, chin tilted up. This was when we were still in love with our mutual love of words. Lithe. I remember it like it was yesterday.
But there is just one time in my life when I felt delicate. It was when I was dancing. For about three years, while dancing (relatively) consistently, I felt like the very definition of delicate. I know a lot of people feel awkward and bumbling while dancing, but I was good at it. Maybe it's because I had to wear heels. Maybe it's because I understand that you can't look down, that your arms and your neck affect your form as much as do your legs. This is probably why I never really took to swing -- too much bouncing and arm wavering for me -- even though I was really good at East Coast, too. (I've only danced West Coast once, with a friend of mine at a date dash, and I was really drunk. But he said I did well. I think it's just because I'm great at following.)
As everyone knows. Tango is my favorite. I can tango circles around anyone. (Okay, not really. And that statement is probably less true now that I'm out of practice.) I was really, really good at Tango. I love the drama of Tango, the sensuality, the pace. I worked hard to make Tango alluring and surreptitiously sexy while dancing it. I perfected the Tango Face. Sometimes, when I'd think about how awesome I must have looked, I'd have to fight back a smile. Because you don't smile in Tango. Only passion. (Again, not really true. But this is just how I am.)
And the waltz. God, how I love to waltz. I'd smile my ass off while waltzing, close-mouthed, of course. I'd look at my partner with a glance that said, "Aren't we the most fabulous dancers on this floor?" And I'd look to everyone in the room, asking for their agreement with my serene smile. I was always a cocky dancer, but I didn't care, because I loved it so much. I'd get carried around the room, twirling and contra-checking or promenading, and I'd feel like the most exquisite woman in the room.
Now, though, I sit in my apartment and watch So You Think You Can Dance with Toria and go crazy whenever anyone waltzes or tangos. And when I'm disappointed by the performance, I always think to myself, I could do it better. Even though I KNOW I couldn't. I used to dream that I'd end up on those ballroom competition shows that always air on public broadcast channels, cha-chaing and and salsaing and swinging and foxtrotting around the room, but everyone would gape when the Tango began. And then, when my partner (who was always incredibly good-looking in my dreams) and I would waltz, the crowd would erupt in cheers and make bets as to how soon it would take for us to be the most popular and famous dancers in the world.
And sometimes I still dream.
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