Tara Heberling     Confessions of a Boot-Scooter None of us is entirely sure of how the whole obsession began. I believe I may be directly responsible because I once worked as a waitress in a Lone Star Steak House, and as part of my job description I learned how to slap leather, push my tush, and do the watermelon crawl. It was my dirty little secret that I had enjoyed my summer in the land of the Texas-size welcome and the five-minute dance break. I was ashamed of my new-found fix and went so far as to jovially agree with strangers who said, "I like any kind of music except country" (which is, as we all know, always assumed to be a good conversation opener, especially in the New York area, which is where I am from). Still, it blistered inside me every time I heard "T-R-O-U-B-L-E" or "God Bless Texas" on the radio. I had to consciously control my feet to keep them from leaping into line-dancing ecstasy. Last winter, while being cozily crammed together in the "living room" of our "apartment" (read: "corner" and "matchbox"), my roommates and I were flipping through the University Union short course booklet, joking about which course we should take together. "Oh, advanced yogurt making," one said, and another replied, "No, no, ancient Greek courtship dances," and then I believe it was I who piped up and declared, "Country line dancing" (though we dispute who is actually to blame to this day). Silence fell. We all had a hearty and somewhat uneasy laugh as we gauged one another's responses to this idea. Somehow, under the pretense of doing it just for the hell of it, we signed up for the course, and I believe that was the beginning of the end for all of us. We did the "Cotton Eye Joe" around the trash chute in Bice House. We blasted Shania during parties, and taught (and occasionally forced) our guests to Canadian stomp. We got the band at the Madison House Ball to play a little Garth Brooks. One of us actually ran into some of the band members later on, and they said, "Yeah, a bunch of freaks kept asking us to play country music." Alas, summer came and ended all our fun. I was willfully and pleasantly marooned in Charlottesville. My roommates scattered to the four corners of the earth, and I was lonely, oh, so very lonely ... But see, here I go making excuses again, something I promised myself I would not do. I will not be embarrassed by my obsession any longer; no, today is the day I come out of my country closet: I hereby admit that I, of my own volition and with much enthusiasm and relish, and without prodding or even a partner in crime, developed an unhealthy need to go two-stepping at least once a week, and sometimes twice when I could round up someone to drive with me to Lynchburg. There was something extremely seductive about the whole business. I was completely incognito: I couldn't tell my local friends (none of whom had been involved in the development of the obsession) what I was doing because they would have been appalled. I couldn't tell anyone I went dancing with that I was from New Jersey or I would have placed the Yankee curse upon myself. I had a whole new identity defined by waltzes and barn dances. It was very liberating. My addiction escalated quickly and I went hardcore pretty fast. I justified the purchase of my first pair of cowboy boots despite my limited summer budget. I bought my first George Strait CD. I checked off "country" as my music of preference when I joined BMG. When I was visiting home my friends took me out to a "club" and I was so acutely disappointed when I realized I wouldn't get to cha cha that I left early. Perhaps most disturbing of all, I began to watch TNN and CMT when the windows were shut so the neighbors wouldn't hear. Now that my roommates are back in town and I have a regular group to indulge with (there is safety in numbers, you know), I feel that it is high time I admitted my problem and tried to get some help before I graduate and have to return to the tri-state area. The first step is of course admitting that I do have a problem, so here goes: I am a dancing fool. Everything about going out to the proverbial "honky tonk" is solid and honest -- exactly how it is framed out in country songs about the subject. The crowds are friendly and earnest -- they love the music and they are there pretty much only to dance. Unlike traditional clubs, there is relatively no meat-market feeling. Men say "thank you" after finishing a dance. Women are not as on-guard. There is, after all, far less commitment to a few spins around the floor rather then seven extended-club-mix minutes of bumping and grinding. There are actual steps to the dances and everyone in the place is willing to teach you if you ask. They'll love you like Sunday, treat you like Saturday night.

back to Decweb main