It’s Friday night, and my husband, Jeff, and I are at a dance studio in suburban Connecticut, learning the cha-cha with 12 other adults. Della Reese sings “Why Don’t You Do Right?” over the PA system as our teacher counts, “One, two, cha-cha-cha.”

When my older son told us he was getting married, I asked for dance lessons. To support my petition, I did extensive research. When I typed “benefits of ballroom dancing” into my web browser’s search bar, Google automatically added “for seniors.” The list was long – cardiovascular health, improved balance, increased strength. There were even claims that ballroom dancing could turn back time.

I told Jeff I wanted to do better than the bear hug we’d done at our own wedding, but I had another reason that I didn’t reveal. Since our sons were grown and we had more time to spend together—just the two of us—we became snippy with each other and fussy about tiny household details.

“I wouldn’t have wiped the kitchen countertops like that,” I’ve heard myself say.

We needed something fun and new to share.

Jeff and I were never involved in the disco scene, and the only line dance we remember doing is the Hokey Pokey. As we drove to our first lesson, Jeff said, “You know, I think we looked great at our wedding.” If I hadn’t been so annoyed by his speeding driving, I might have leaned over and kissed him.

Our teacher, Michael, who founded the studio and runs it with his wife, refers to us as boys and girls, even though many of us are old enough to be retired. On another night, when Michael and a younger dancer are teaching West Coast Swing, a newer dance that has no history of gender stereotypes, he calls us “leaders” and “followers” based on the dance positions rather than gender.

Tonight, however, he says: boys and girls. Michael begins by demonstrating how the boys should initiate a turn. “It’s hard to be us,“, says Michael into the room. Everyone nods in agreement.

For the followers, Michael emphasizes that we should take a step directly towards our partner. He raises his arm in a subtle movement – “That’s the only sign you get, girls.” This is the confirmation that it is hard to us – the followers – who read the leader’s instructions while continuing to make their own moves.

I realized that it is neither easy to be a leader nor a follower.

“It’s hard to be us,” Michael says to the room. Everyone nods in agreement.

After a few months of classes, we noticed we were experiencing some of the health benefits of learning a new physical skill. What I didn’t expect, however, was that the clock had been turned back emotionally. As I process the closeness to my constantly changing dance partners (we switch every minute or so), I feel nervous anticipation and suddenly very connected to my 13-year-old self.

During the years of humiliation in eighth grade, I found joy in square dancing lessons in the gym. We made fun of it – so squarethe anti-rock and roll – but there was also a dizzying thrill in bouncing through a line of stomping, sweating youths. Now I feel a similar thrill when I raise my arms in the air and twirl around with strutting, hesitant adults.

Unlike the square dance lessons in eighth grade, these ballroom dancing lessons seem to be working after 40 years of marriage. But in addition to learning how to dance, I’m also understanding how hard it is to be “them.” Not just the men, but everyone around me. No matter how old we are, the discomfort of learning basic dance steps with strangers is a way to become a kinder person. Especially to your spouse.

At some point in every class, Michael says, “Cover your partner.” By this, he means more than just apologizing for missteps. He tells us to consider individual strengths and weaknesses when dancing, and reminds us to be kind to one another.

Even though Jeff and I started the class rushed and out of sync, I’m glad when it’s our turn to dance together. For the minute we’re allotted together, we hold on tight. We still stumble through the steps, but find ourselves fitting into each other’s arms in a way the other students don’t. It’s easy to get frustrated, but since ballroom dancing is new to both of us and we’re alike in our lack of skill, frustration easily turns to laughter as we try to put what we’ve learned into practice at home. In these moments, we might realize that cleaning a kitchen counter a certain way is unimportant, or that controlling every last detail of how someone inserts a ticket into a parking meter is unnecessary.

At the end of the lesson, Michael stops the music to summarize what has been learned: “When we count to three, clap your hands loudly with your partner.”

We all clap once and head to our chairs to put on our street shoes. We grab our coats, our bags, and our car keys. On the way home, I resist the urge to point out the yellow light as we approach it. Without prompting, Jeff slows and stops. We are silent, connected for a moment by the knowledge of what it means to be us and the sense of relief that we have made it through another class period.

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