Last night, I played solo trumpet accompaniment for a duet danced in the Merce Cunningham choreography showcase. I left, not only relieved that the piece had gone well, but with a renewed love of both dance and of dancers themselves. Throughout the showcase, I was captivated by the men and women both, drawn in by their static poise and flowing agility, the effortlessness of their motion, their lithe, powerful bodies.

I suppose one might easily write off the fascination as displacedly Oedipal (my mother being a dancer) or delayedly narcissistic (having, loathe as I often am to admit it, danced myself until the age of 12). But I instead contend it stems from an appreciation of grace. A quality dancers, above all others, possess.

Following the showcase, I hit the bars with a small crowd of Cunningham and Alvin Ailey girls, almost all international – French, German, Iranian. The whole time, part of me was thinking, I should really find a way to date a dancer. The whole time, another part of me was thinking, I should really find a way to become one myself.