Ever since I watched Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights as an awkward 15-year-old, I’ve wanted to move like Romola Garai. Of course, I was still growing into my body and could barely run down the basketball court without tripping over myself. I tried ballet when I was seven, but couldn’t deal with the fact that my younger sister was The Nutcracker’s Clara while I was cast as a mouse. The first time I danced with a boy in middle school, I put my hands around his waist. High school mixers and college dances were a blur of alcohol-feigned confidence—the result of which was a torn MCL—and that pretty much sums up my attempts at coordinated movement. It was then, as I sulked in the corner of a bar with ice on my knee, that I decided it was time to learn how to actually dance.