As a trained ballet dancer, I love structure, rules and the methodological algorithm of how story ballets go. Ballet class all over the world starts the same: left hand on the barre, then center work, adagio, movement across the floor, petit allegro, grand allegro, and if you have enough time, you turn across the room to a coda.
The countless repetitions give you the most beautiful art form where swans glide, fairies dance and every year a giant nutcracker appears. I trust dance more than I trust anything else in the world to transform me and export me to a picturesque world.
I took the same approach with dating.
After graduating from NYU, I moved to Los Angeles to teach dance at a public middle school. I tried to use the same dating recipe to find my forever. Structure, rules, lines — all of these were tried and true and would work for me in this avenue of life.
My list of rules had “must haves” and “no, thank yous.” I wouldn’t date a teacher (because I couldn’t be poor!). I wouldn’t date someone that graduated from any Southern California UC (because I wanted potential dates to not be from here), and I wouldn’t date an only child (he wouldn’t know what to do with my big family).
And I couldn’t date anyone from the Valley. I’d never see them because I would be stuck on the 405 Freeway trying to get to them. My ideal guy had to be at least 6 feet tall. Also, one of my dating rules was: “If you can’t lift me, you can’t date me,” because every girl deserves to be hoisted in the air in a true “Dirty Dancing” moment.
There was one summer when I believed the best place to go out and meet someone was the Bungalow in Santa Monica. One of my co-workers was part of the gaggle for the night, and she was friends with another teacher named Kyle.
I had met Kyle briefly in passing and thought he was attractive, but other than that 15-second encounter, I have never gotten to know him. Kyle declined our invitation to hang out at the Bungalow, but then a wildfire erupted in the Valley. As fate would have it, he decided to meet us at the bar after all.
We had a great time sipping vodka soda and chatting with our group that evening. At the end of the night, Kyle told me that he needed to get new clothes, and I forced him to accept my invitation to go shopping.
He was smart, tall and fun, but he had too many nos from my list. For starters, he lived in Porter Ranch, which felt like another state from Santa Monica. He didn’t follow the structure of what I saw as my future.
I like to follow through on my plans, so we headed to the Citadel outlets where we bought him rainbow sandals, dress shirts and black jeans. Then a few days later, we watched the Olympics together. But in my head I kept saying: “No.”
Then everything started moving just like a ballet class. Date after date, this guy kept showing up and showing his best. He came dressed and on time. We always had a plan of where to go and we enjoyed each other’s company. Like a dance class, I just felt at home with him. He was steady, strong, methodical, smart, well-read and fun.
I originally denied that we could be a good match. But I couldn’t deny that we worked so well together. One of our first dates was Clifton’s Cafeteria in downtown L.A. The next was at Lake Balboa. This Westside snob was slowly venturing all over the Valley from CiCi’s Cafe (now Lady C’s) to Frankie’s Italian Kitchen.
Early dates turned into years together as we met each other’s families. He came to my school shows, and even when I moved to Orange County, we still meticulously planned our weekends together. Three years after the summer at the Bungalow, Kyle proposed at Descanso Gardens.
If dating was our first act, our second one started when we got married and bought a house in Long Beach, where we are happily L.A. County residents. I said “no” many times, thinking I knew what I wanted. In reality, Kyle has given me the best production experience that I have been a part of.
And as our little girl puts on her tutu for 3-year-old ballet class, she says, “No, momma, I don’t want to go to dance class.” I wrangle her into those tights and leotard because I will always believe dance gives me the best life lessons.
The author is a proud mother of two, nap queen and snack advocate. She teaches dance and yoga. She’s on Instagram: @ms.leongdance.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
