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rivkaSaturday night, as I've said, was the Washington Spring Ball, and consequently the inaugural appearance of my new ball gown. There were difficulties at the beginning of the evening (it took ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
curiousangel longer than we'd anticipated to lace and hook me into the dress, he not being as practiced as wcg, and then one of the ribbons that held up the overskirt came loose from its mooring in the car on the way over and had to be frantically pinned in place), but once we sailed through the arch of greenery at the ballroom door the evening was radiantly perfect from beginning to end.
Perhaps it's because everyone at a ball is dressed up and given to extra courtesies and flourishes, or perhaps it's simply that a much greater proportion of ball dancers are reasonably skilled and have practiced the scheduled dances, but I've found that certain dances click for me at a ball in a way that they haven't done at practices. I've always loved the Bishop, with its swooping curves and multiple opportunities for flirtation, and Well Hall, which is more in the way of a prolonged romantic interlude with one's own partner. Those dances are delightful at practice, and they were delightful Saturday night.
But Saturday's ball transformed the dance St. Margaret's Hill. It's a dance for six people, arrayed in three couples. Each couple in turn takes the lead for a series of elaborate loops and turns. In practice, it's always struck me as fussy, mannered, and awkward. At the ball, in a set with five other skilled dancers, I suddenly experienced as it can be: not a long flowing chain, like most of my favorite dances, but a cameo ornate and perfect in its minuteness. I moved in mirror balance with my partner, an impossibly elegant young man in a long pale blue waistcoat and breeches matching his pale blue eyes, and knew that we were graceful and beautiful together. And found myself regretting the moment that the "fussy, mannered" dance ended.
And Round About Our Coal Fire, a relatively new dance to me and one that's in a cursedly unusual and difficult 9/8 meter. It's a fast dance, with complicated weaving patterns, and if you lag behind a step it's hard to recover. For half way up the set, I was desperately counting under my breath, barely meeting my partner's eyes in passing. And then suddenly it clicked, and I was moving rapidly in and out of the heys and changes in perfect 9/8 time, and most assuredly dancing with my partner even when the patterns separated us.
From the beginning of the evening to the end, I felt beautiful. Everyone praised Bill for my dress, and rightly so, but the best compliment that I can give him myself is that for once I saw what other people saw without having to struggle. I felt beautiful, and graceful, and elegant, right down to the skin. I felt like a princess.
curiousangel longer than we'd anticipated to lace and hook me into the dress, he not being as practiced as wcg, and then one of the ribbons that held up the overskirt came loose from its mooring in the car on the way over and had to be frantically pinned in place), but once we sailed through the arch of greenery at the ballroom door the evening was radiantly perfect from beginning to end.Perhaps it's because everyone at a ball is dressed up and given to extra courtesies and flourishes, or perhaps it's simply that a much greater proportion of ball dancers are reasonably skilled and have practiced the scheduled dances, but I've found that certain dances click for me at a ball in a way that they haven't done at practices. I've always loved the Bishop, with its swooping curves and multiple opportunities for flirtation, and Well Hall, which is more in the way of a prolonged romantic interlude with one's own partner. Those dances are delightful at practice, and they were delightful Saturday night.
But Saturday's ball transformed the dance St. Margaret's Hill. It's a dance for six people, arrayed in three couples. Each couple in turn takes the lead for a series of elaborate loops and turns. In practice, it's always struck me as fussy, mannered, and awkward. At the ball, in a set with five other skilled dancers, I suddenly experienced as it can be: not a long flowing chain, like most of my favorite dances, but a cameo ornate and perfect in its minuteness. I moved in mirror balance with my partner, an impossibly elegant young man in a long pale blue waistcoat and breeches matching his pale blue eyes, and knew that we were graceful and beautiful together. And found myself regretting the moment that the "fussy, mannered" dance ended.
And Round About Our Coal Fire, a relatively new dance to me and one that's in a cursedly unusual and difficult 9/8 meter. It's a fast dance, with complicated weaving patterns, and if you lag behind a step it's hard to recover. For half way up the set, I was desperately counting under my breath, barely meeting my partner's eyes in passing. And then suddenly it clicked, and I was moving rapidly in and out of the heys and changes in perfect 9/8 time, and most assuredly dancing with my partner even when the patterns separated us.
From the beginning of the evening to the end, I felt beautiful. Everyone praised Bill for my dress, and rightly so, but the best compliment that I can give him myself is that for once I saw what other people saw without having to struggle. I felt beautiful, and graceful, and elegant, right down to the skin. I felt like a princess.
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Date: 2002-05-21 10:08 am (UTC)Rivka, dear... I will have to just wave my hands about helplessly here. I am *so* glad you got to see the beautiful, graceful, elegant woman I see.
*hugs*