Man-Child

I was recently referred to as a man child. By my own sister by all means. I feel this term tends to have two meanings depending on who is saying it. From the ‘man-child’s point of view it could mean that they are light hearted and still have a wonder and magic about the world that has allowed them to hold onto their innocence in little ways. Of course I say that knowing full well I exhibit ‘Man-Child’ behavior. I think the term in today’s world, and the term in which my own sister was trying to elicit, was meant to strike more as an insult than a compliment. What I mean is when the term has been used to describe others, it feels that there are multiple factors that make one a man child.

• not in-tune with their emotions/emotionally stunted.
• immature for their age (in regards to the societal standard I am guessing).
• unaware of others and their existence.
• directionless/no moral compass.
• fear of commitment.
• An inability to take responsibility.
• Exhibiting ‘Peter Pan’ syndrome.

and many, many more factors that might be or could be considered by the general populous.

with that list above I would say any adult or individual referred to as a man-child would want to take offense to it. But I can’t say that I did. I took it as a compliment; and sure while some may again elude to the fact my sister stated I was and “if the glass slipper fits”, for me, it’s more that I can place myself on the spectrum of man child/adult-child with fair accuracy, and therefore don’t take offense rather as a compliment.

Like most things there clearly is not just a ‘you are / you are not’. Especially when taking into account the emotional development of a human being. It’s simply irresponsible to limit such complex bags of ground beef as humans are to just 1’s and 0’s.

Let me tell you about a girl I spent time with in my mid teens. A girl who I only spent about one year with. Really quickly I want to say that I hope she is doing well and that if she ever reads this, I wish I had more confidence in myself to be a better half to you when I feel you need it. Also to quickly rip the bandage off, she and I never ‘dated’ or did more than anything but dance together. Yes I mean that literally. She was my dance partner for a year, in which she and I danced ‘semi-professionally’ ballroom dancing. I met her during a cotillion class in Boulder during one of the standard classes. She was a student instructor, and let me stop you before thinking this was an adult, she was not, the student instructors were the same ages (or within a year or two) of the ‘high school’ equivalent students taking the program. Near the end of one class, the teacher put on a class wide competition. Tango was the dance and a random girl and I partnered up. The round robin elimination started where the student instructors walked around, viewing individuals’ forms and dance style, eliminating pairs at a time until 5 pairs remained. At this time the rest of the class voted on who to eliminate until there were only two pairs left. When my partner and I entered into the last five groupings, I recognized that this specific student instructor was rooting for me and my partner quite heavily. She would walk around us as we danced helping ‘hype’ the crowd up, to a point that the crowd voted all other groups out, and we won. Sure I felt elation at winning something I not only wanted to win; but also the fact that this student teacher was so about me and my partners dancing skills, that she herself came up to us to present us the trophy saying “you two dance so well together, especially you” as she tapped me on the chest.

The next week, when arriving at Cotillion, wondering if my status as ‘dance master’ had faded in memories of the other students, upon entering the ballroom, I was quickly met by a handful of other student boys. They wanted to talk and get to know me more, including one asking if I had already asked the girl I had won the competition with to the main cotillon event, taking place at the end of the program. To be honest this day felt like the best parts of any John Hughes movie. Being a little on top of the world, as the day went on, I had people watching my feet for the moves, and even random girls I danced with tell me they were friends with the girl I won the competition with and that I should ask her to the event, all letting me know that if I did that, I was a guaranteed “yes” in her book. Here I was worrying weeks prior about asking someone to be my date to the final event and now, here in this moment, was that chance at solidifying a date and releasing myself of all the stress I had been feeling.

But there was more this week. It was not only this new found “fame” that was different. The student instructor was back again. Which sounds like something not out of the ordinary, but take into account this individual had been a part of (including this week’s class) three to four classes out of I want to say an 8 week course. She also never helped assist two classes in a row until now. I couldn’t help notice the multiple times we made eye contact as the class went on and she would continually throw smiles my way when meeting our eyes. Class was coming to an end and there was a period of ‘free dance’ where men would go and ask a woman to dance and end the day practicing some of our skills. I found my previous partner sitting across the room talking to a few girls, a couple of which I had already danced with that day. Gathering the confidence to approach her, I ran over the plan in my head. 1, ask her to dance, 2, while dancing ask her if she has a date to the final event. 3. If she says no, ask her to be my date. Straightforward and easy. Standing up from my chair to cross the floor, knowledge that she will say yes thanks to her friends, my gut still in knots, the student instructor met me before my foot even got to the dance floor, as she grabbed my arm and pointing to the floor “Hey, let’s you and me dance no?”

At this time I should make mention of something. This student instructor was simply gorgeous. By all accounts she was the girl that any nerdy high school kid, or for that matter, any straight high school boy, would write about in the corner of their school notebook when it came to the “dream girl”. She had an internal confidence that was felt immediately and way of carrying herself, that was paired with this endless energy that made her impossible to ignore, and giving her this allure I can only imagine would be similar to the sirens of classic Greek writing. A draw that any guy simply could not resist. Between hearing boys asking early each session if the “hot student teacher” was helping that day, to an uncomfortable conversation between two dads during the final event I accidentally overheard, she was always noticed by the opposite sex. Sadly and what seemed like most often, not always in the best of ways.

We walked out to the middle of the floor, taken by complete surprise, I was dancing with the teachers assistant, my eyes darting over her left shoulder to a small group of boys tapping each others shoulders to point in my direction, then over her other shoulder to the girl who I was going to ask to dance, swaying softly with a freshman boy much shorter than her, a look on her face most likely resembling that of my own, a face that screamed “what is happening right now?” and in the meantime a flurry of words being spoken from this student instructor to me as I forced myself back into attention, focusing on the girl in front of me. The girl in front of me, the one with curled golden hair that had a single streak of hot pink in it and dark blue eyes that I don’t know how I did not get lost in them immediately; a girl who was real and dancing with me and letting me hold her hand and catching the last of “….I think you should be my partner for the final event? What do you say? You dance so well and I think it would be fun, you have to say yes…”

She asked me. Right there, an individual such as herself, stating for a crowd of peers that I, a lanky, unmaintained curly haired geek in an ill-fitting suit and mismatched socks, was to be her partner for the final event. I can’t recall if I actually said that I would be her partner, really I think I did but that whole moment happened so fast, she ran off to the side and wrote her number down on a piece of paper, handing it to me as I was getting ready to leave. What was a small group of boys at the beginning of the night turned into a crowd outside the building, high-fives coming, asking to see the number and pats on the back, questions being hurled at me like rocks from a sieging army thrown out with no answers to them.

the drive home that evening felt like I flew in a plane from Boulder back to Morrison.

I was simply infatuated. The night of the event came and having texted her using my older brother’s phone (I did not have my first one for a couple months to come) but hearing nothing back, I showed up to the event, and was in no better words, stood up by her. But this is not a story about how Nic gets stood up and then becomes an incel, all while fantasizing about the girl who asked him to a dance. Again remember how I said she was my dance partner During the final event I had no partner, the chair to my right at the table was empty, and when seeing her, I walked up to her and she immediately said hi, then let me know that she found out afterwards student instructors couldn’t be dates to the dance with the students themselves. At this moment the two weeks of pure elation I felt genuinely faded more like a sunset than what I was expecting. Walking back to my table I sat down as others with their partners were getting up to dance, including the girl who I was going to ask, shooting me a quick look before heading out to the floor with her partner. This was when the weight of the night had hit me. When the joy had faded indefinitely.

Living in what felt like the lowest I could feel, with “You Don’t Know Me” by Michael Bublé playing in the ballroom, an older lady sat down next to me before even the first song ended. Quickly, in case you want to listen to the song, there is a reason I remember it. That DJ was a dick.

“So my daughter tells me you’re a great dancer? She was wondering if you want to be her partner. Not in Cotillion but for her and her professional ballroom lessons.”

Her mother, who was wearing a similar dress and hair style as her daughter, was staring at me in this moment, carrying somehow a similar allure that felt like that of her daughters, but different.

One week later my mother dropped me off at a dance studio in Boulder. Arriving a little late, I entered the closed door and the room was empty except for her and her teacher. She was stretching with our instructor when she jumped to her feet and ran to me, quite literally throwing herself into my arms and hugging me telling me how happy she was that I decided to be her partner and that we were going to do such fun things together. At this point, I had a total of about 7 minutes of conversation with this girl and she was already hugging me and telling me how much I meant to her. Was this why I had kept dancing all these years? Is this why I forced myself through Hip Hop Lessons, ballroom, and even a season of ballet? After meeting her and my new dance instructor, did she think I was gay and so felt safe around me? The questions were endless during the first session and being told by the instructor I had a lot of work to do but was capable of being great, fueled the fire inside me. Our first session felt good but my partner was something I had a hard time figuring out.

A couple sessions in, she and I were sitting out front of the studio waiting for our parents to pick us up, she had only just gotten her license but no access to a car yet, and me with my permit, we were still at the whim of our parents. She asked me if I had a girlfriend, in which I made sure she knew that while I didn’t have a girlfriend at that moment, I think I recall using the phrase ‘I like girls a lot, I mean a lot’. I guess what I remember the most is that she laughed at whatever phrase I used and said “ya you didn’t alert my gay-dar the way some guys do”, then proceeded to place her head on my shoulder while she hummed the little mermaid song, part of your world.

I think at this point a person may think to themselves, man this girl was into you. And trust me there were a couple times when I myself felt this. But this isn’t a love story. I should get to the point as to why I am talking about this girl. Why she has found herself a subject in this post. To this date she is someone I think about, but not because we danced together or even because I was interested in her. It was because depending on the day, or even minute, I was not sure what version of her I would be talking to, dealing with, or how myself as a 15 year old was going to navigate the expansive realm my dance partner lived and thrived in.

Early on we had a session close to valentine’s day and when I came to the studio I walked in through the doors, there she had an entire thing of valentines day accoutrements including cards and candy, flower, a teddy bear, and wearing a red dress that still to this day I feel was not the most appropriate given it being practice. For someone who I would see on a once a week, sometimes two basis, this felt a bit over the top and my mind thought that this was maybe a joke. After all, the only time I had seen something like this was more reserved for couples. But when presenting me the valentines day cards and candy, the way she went about it transported me to the feeling I got back in grade school when asking someone to be your valentine. At this moment I felt like she was acting a little like a child and it was a strange occurrence because while someone with no context would look at the situation as possibly romantic and sexual in nature, being the dress, the gifts, the stuffed teddy with the phrase “kiss me” across its belly, her attitude was more of that as a 4th grader asking me to be her Valentines and to hold hands on the swing set. I can see how it could be seen as cute and a nice gesture, but the behavior that came from her was perplexing at all times. Where at one moment she would seem and act like a little sister, but then at the next moment, behave as though she was in her late twenties, maybe even thirties. Rarely it felt like she was a genuine 16 year old girl. She would be handing me multiple valentines day cards throughout the session, written with sparkle gel pens or even crayon with phrases like “be mine” or “ur cute” or even “me plus you”, and in ten minutes asking me if I was dropped on my head as a child because I messed up the steps for our practice.

At the end of one of our sessions, my mother and her mother arrived around the same time to grab us. Her mother was talking with me about some extra practice for an event coming up and if her daughter and I could get a few more sessions in, then we would really be able to get our routine solidified. When my mother came in she stood next to us, her mother turned to mine and said something along the lines of, “oh Betty, we are just talking about trying to get some practicing sessions together with the kids outside the studio” turning to me she continued with “we have a large ballroom at our main house in Boulder and you two could practice in there, coming up for a weekend you can stay over so its easier.” The daughter looked at her mom and simply stated that I could share her room with her, then asked me if that was something I would be okay with.

My mom immediately jumped in saying “Well I don’t think that’s a good idea” looking back to the girl’s mother who stated almost just as quickly “oh well of course they wouldn’t share a bed we have an extra twin we can throw on the ground, so they have separate beds.” as though that was the solution to my mothers problem.

On the ride home from that specific practice, my mother asked me if I liked this girl and I skirted the question, how I do not know, I just did. I was not interested in my partner and honestly had stopped being even curious about her around the 4th dance session she and I had. I could have maybe told my mother this but the aspect of talking about girls with my mother was not something I wanted to do, what 15/16 year old would? What sticks with me to this day though was my mom simply saying, “what mom would allow her teen daughter to share a bedroom with a teen boy for a weekend?” She was right. From my moms point of view, all she heard was that this other mother was trying to have me spend the weekend with her daughter not just in the same house, but sleeping in the same room only a couple bed sheets apart. What my mom did not see, was the entirety of the past two sessions we danced, this session specifically where every ten minutes she would stop dancing, move off to the side where she had printed off a card table sized large sheet of paper covered in an Excel Cell grid, and write down each and every little thing we needed to work on so as to be perfect for the upcoming event. Next to each step or phase she wrote down information to ensure that enough time was allotted to each step or phase, and near the end calculated the total time with the teacher’s help, to come to the realization that indeed, a weekend’s worth of practice would have allowed us to perfect our routine. Not dancing the entire time but a few hours each day. But enough time that even I agreed, it would mean we could really perfect our routine. My mother saw the teenage girl asking her “teenage boy dance partner” to spend a weekend sleeping over and “dancing”.

Not what I saw for 10ish hours of my life that day; the calculated, grown women with a short fuse and little time for play, retaping her ankles as the blood soaked through her current bandages, talking about the need for us to add in another variation between our last main phrase and outro since we were scheduled in the middle of the event and needed to wow the judges to leave a lasting impression on them, that I should practice with the teacher more while she hit the restroom, and for god sakes if I misstep again on the intro she might literally castrate me.

When we were learning some Latin dances, we had a couple sessions with a visiting Latin specific teacher. An older lady who must have been in her 70s, who within the first 15 minutes of our 1st session, she stopped us, walked up to us pushing our bodies together working from our shoulders to our lower backs until each part of us was touching the other, saying “dancing to Latin music is like having sex while standing….” in which she then rambled something about having the judges notice this or see this. I do not remember exactly, but more being taken back by the fact this older women just said this while pushing two teenagers bodies together, and then hearing my partner say under her breath only a few inches below me “sex seems icky, no thank you”; almost immediately backing myself up from her due to my own uncomfortableness with the situation. This in itself could have been unpacked for all sorts of reasons but I also remember thinking what 16 year old girl uses the phrase “icky”.

There was a practice session where she spoke in baby talk the entire time. The entire time.

During one of our sessions, upon entering the building instead of the standard “run jump hug” I would get or the fast clapping followed by a soft side hug, she extended her hand and shook mine like we were about to partake in a business transaction. she followed up this with “today will be a good and productive lesson, I hope you are as willing to learn as I am.” Between our moments of downtime she lost this professionalism and instead almost became like a stranger it felt like. I asked how her weekend was and if she did anything cool and she would look at me like I was a random person asking her something personal. At the end of the session she extended her hand once again, called me by my full name as Nicholas and not Nic or Nickie as she would tend to, and then left as though our business for the day had completed.

The last time she and I danced was at my 16th birthday party. Something I was dreading leading up to as I think people who know even little things about me, know I am not really one to like the idea of gathering a mass of individuals to “celebrate me”.

My mother told me I had to invite this girl, and to her credit I completely understand why I should have now. We spent a long while together and once again I can’t stress enough that this individual is still someone I respect given all mentioned above. I am almost sure she probably has a long list of things she remembers about me, including but not limited to a few times she definitely caught me staring while she stretched. Or the fact that dance clothing is thin and leaves very little to be imagined, and the times I had difficulty averting my eyes during cold sessions in the studio; a 15 year old boy can only fight off demons so many times. Or maybe the sweaty palms from when she and I first started to dance together. But I am almost sure her story would revolve around the night of my 16th, and it would be well deserved. I must say, she was always kind and generous to me, even when her competitiveness came out and she would lash at me, this I understood entirely and was frankly comfortable with within a couple weeks of being her partner. I am sure she is still out dancing the competition and ensnaring all who give her a moment’s notice and attention.

The night of my birthday she showed up in a stunning dress and with her natural allure grabbed almost every eye in the room, including my high school friends, most of whom were learning about my history of dancing at that moment. That matched with me still being a 16 year old boy, that 90 percent of the people there were meeting my dance partner for the first time, and the fact that again I am not one to enjoy a celebration of myself, must have only fueled my awkwardness. During the dinner party she sat to my right (a position she and I knew from cotillion was reserved for honored individuals) and we hardly ever talked. My male friends informed me after the fact that the vast majority were too scared to even talk to her and my female friends did what high school girls do best, consistently avoid the new girl. She must have only been talked to a couple of times. At one point my parents and many others asked me and her to perform. She arrived at a party of a hundred or so people not knowing anyone else and me in my state, we danced horribly. The worst we must have ever danced honestly. We were out of sink and it was all around atrocious to the point a friend of mine afterwards asked me if we did that as a joke because it was nowhere close to actually looking like a dance. With all these moments compiling, there was a breaking point, she couldn’t handle it and she left early.

I can guarantee I was awkward that night. I can’t even recall if I even spoke a word to her. I can say I am positive she did not feel comfortable to be there or anything about that.

I learned very little about my dance partner given how much time we spent together. I had learned that she dropped out of public school to be homeschooled (be that in high school or earlier I don’t remember) all so that she could focus on her dancing. I knew her older sister fairly well seeing as she was one of the main teachers of Cotillion and in fact one day hired me to be a student instructor for the course. Other than that I only met her father a few times, with her mother taking the majority of my meetings. I can say that her mother and my own shared a similar quality in their want for their children’s success. Whereas mine was more about grades and education, I could see how my partners were in line with dancing. It always seemed that her mother had opinions and maybe was not just secretly pulling the strings of her daughter but pushing in ways that were unproductive. Maybe it’s what led to the personality being so split at times. But I was 15 and she was 16 and my education along with my own feelings towards dancing and even her, were simple and surface level at best. What I can always remember and recall is how I felt around her, and how she in a way helped train me to recognize body language and facial expressions. For again I never knew which partner I would have that day. The little sister looking for external comfort. Or the deeply passionate adult whose life was dance and I was someone to help showcase her skills. By all means, she was the better dancer, by far and wide margins.

I could tell that when she was saying good night the evening of my party, she really was trying to say goodbye forever.

When I hear Man-Child my mind goes back to this girl. As I look back to that time with her, not knowing anything about her actual home life or what her childhood before me or even her adulthood looked like after me, I am sure there are some psychologists out there who, given an opportunity to read this and find a way to dive deeper into her, could come up with a list of mental diagnoses for her. But recently our time together, to me, has become a sense of calming and understanding the more I age.

See there are true ‘man-children’. Those who actively fight against ageing or taking responsibility for their actions no matter what. The so-called Peter Pans. And yes there are then the “men”. Those whose inner child has long since left and the ability to relax and take a moment for oneself would or could be agony in their minds. This after all is the spectrum.

But there is no one who slid the spectrum more than my dance partner. She in one moment would have the maturity of someone who deeply, and I mean deeply cared about the things she loved. She would take complete and total responsibility for her actions and behavior. A trance or affliction that almost made it painful to watch her work. But then she would slide in the other direction creating moments where the new generation that creates “cringe worthy” material would crown her queen and use her face for their currency. All along at times landing in the middle or off to just the side of the middle, to make me laugh or bring me back to that moment and focus up, giving me that anchor to get serious about what was ahead.

As for me, my friends see my childish side more than my adult side. They see the friend who loves tabletop role playing games, who makes strange noises as a response, and plays out bits and inside jokes more often than not. Who will text an inappropriate joke and laugh at the word ‘boner’. What my friends don’t see is the man who pays a mortgage; is considered a leader and instructor at work; who cooks and cleans for himself constantly; an individual who cares deeply for the family and friends around him, and would do anything to ensure the ones he loves stay safe, healthy, and happy.

And in the grand scheme I am more than okay with that. I don’t think we need to showcase the aspects of us that make us responsible. Genuinely how many of us actually care what another stranger does for work. I would rather have that individual tell me why their spirit animal is a snail, its significance in their life, and how the next 5 years are being guided on the Snail Sign.

If our limited time has to be filled up with bloody ankle bandages, hours spent sending pointless emails, or heaven forbid, cleaning dishes, as long as a persons taking responsibility for their actions and treats others with respect, then I crave to hear about how you’ve set aside 7% of your income for Legos.

I am not entirely sure of all the lessons I learned from this strange year of my life. While other friends played video games after school or discussed joining the basketball team, I stood in ballroom dance shoes with the extra lifted heel, sweat dripping down my face, watching a petite blonde make funny faces at me behind our choreographers back from across the room. I would head to school the next day, and keep my after school activities a secret, stating that I just watched tv or did homework, ignoring my friends calls to hang out. And when she said her goodbyes at my birthday party, a night where it all seemed to be more work than fun, thinking about the few hours every couple days for almost a year, watching and working with her, it was apparent and quickly learned in that moment.

I don’t want to hold other people to the standards I myself am afraid to be. I should also not condemn them for not following my own then either. I think that if I start, I will just be sitting alone at an empty table while others get up to dance.

*The Ultimate Latin Album 7, Disk 1, Track 13.