The seasons go by very fast. It doesn't seem like long ago that I could tell people I'd been learning tango for six months or twelve months and they'd smile and nod and look impressed. At some point I began saying '3 years' or 'four years' or 'five years', and people stopped looking impressed and instead simply started nodding their heads, as if to say 'seems about right'. I assume this means I'm following the natural curve of tango progress. At least people don't usually shake their heads in horror, so I suppose I'm not behind or under the curve somewhere.
But the years blur together. When I started, I remember chatting with someone who'd been dancing tango for three years. It seemed like an unimaginable investment of time to me back then. And now, of course, I can see that there's not ever going to be an end to it. Or I think I can see that. Maybe in three years' time I'll feel differently. Three years is a drop in the temporal ocean. Three years just gets you to the point of realising that you've probably just spent three years working on the wrong things and ignoring all the right things. And the cycle repeats every year or two or three.
There are twelve months in a year.
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