Becoming a mom can give you a complex. Becoming a mom a second time doubly so. Covered in spit-up, breastmilk, old clothes and feeling chubby I have been catching my favorite dance show while folding endless amounts of laundry and attempting to teach my daughter that yelling does not get you what you want. Often by yelling at her. Sitting on the couch 2 weeks ago after eating yet another 'meal deal' from the local fast food joint, I had a completely irrational thought: I would sign up for dance classes.
Not only dance classes, but contemporary dance classes. I had visions of me floating gracefully, with an amazing dancer's body, doing all sorts of dancerish things while the lesser moms out there looked on enviously. My inner narrator would add on 'with the grace of a dancer' as I did the most menial tasks. As in: "
She selected apples from the produce section with the grace of a dancer". (Don't even tell me you don't have an inner narrator. We all do.)
After some brief classes I would try out for my favorite dance show and they would be stunned at the natural talent that oozed out of my pores and disbelieving that I had only been dancing a few months. After an amazing season where I excelled at all styles of dance; I would win the title of 'America's favorite dancer' and have something inspiring to say like: "
Everyone should follow their dreams, if you want to do something, do it! You never know what you may be good at - I mean, look at me and dancing! I just started 3 months ago!"
However, the fantasy does not line up with reality in a few ways. In fact, there are some fairly massive disadvantages to be pointed out here.
First; I have hardly any rhythm. On our wedding day my husband and I sort of rocked back and forth in a circle desperately praying for the song to be done. 4 years later, on a whim, we took ballroom dancing classes which can mostly be summed up as us galloping across the dance floor giggling and ended with me losing a toenail.
Second; I'm 5'9" and do not have much of a dancer's body. Heck, I'm attractive, but right now I'm busting out of a DD bra and have a lovely, curvy hourglass figure that may or may not jiggle when subjected to athletic activities.
Third; I haven't subjected myself to any sort of athletic activities in almost a year.
Fourth; I am about as limber as a spooked possum.
None of this deterred me though, and after exchanging some fairly positive emails with the gal at the local dance studio I signed up for 8 weeks of 'Beginner's Contemporary Dance'. She assured me that though many of the other dancers in the class were already experienced, I would fit right in.
Last night was our first lesson, and upon walking into the class I soon spotted that I was clearly the oldest person there. The gal closest to my age was the instructor, and the next closest was the 14 year-old who had been taking ballet since she was 3. We began with some 'simple warm-up stretches' where all the girls, clearly knowing the stretch routine, stretched with
'the grace of a dancer' and I sort of heaved left and right attempting to touch my toes. At the part where we all did the splits and 'pressed our stomachs to the floor' all the other girls were happily prone with foreheads on the ground and toes pointed to the sky while I sort of bobbed up and down in the back, not even close to the floor and nowhere near doing the splits. There was a strange pretzel-like move that left me clutching my ankle behind me with my other leg bent under me while bowing towards the floor and, sadly, tipping over like a drunk person making strangled noises as I went.
And then it was time to dance.
The teacher did a strange, slumping shuffling walk with shoulders gracefully moving to the music. She then did a dramatic stop, made her whole body do a 'wave' motion ending with an amazing head snap, turned her leg in a circle, did a beautiful twirl, and then extended her arms from her body with the music while simultaneously leaping to the right then starting over again with the shuffle. She did this twice and then sent us across the dance floor to do it ourselves.
The other girls performed admirably. Not perfect, but fairly well. Apparently they weren't 'loose enough' and had to 'let go of their ballerina training and really feel the music'.
Then it was my turn.
I attempted the shuffle by apparently channeling my inner zombie. Hunchbacked, I lurched across the floor in disjointed movements, throwing my shoulders around awkwardly and completely missing the cue to do the body wave. I sort of threw my head forward in an attempt to catch up and flung my arms out. I started a twirl and only made it halfway around before the momentum I generated sent me careening wildly off to the right. And, since I was already over there, I ended the movement with a slight hop in lieu of the graceful leap.
The girls who were watching sort of shuffled back further into the corner and the instructor smiled worriedly in my general direction.
With some minor critiquing of the others and a, 'just do your best' for me, off we went again. Over and over I spasmed across the floor, tossing my arms and legs every which way and occasionally heaving myself into the air. And it was while doing this that I realized something very important:
I am not a dancer.
Still, I was having fun. Much like the person at a party who has had way too much to drink and hauls off on the dance floor to cut loose, deeply embarrassing everyone else around them. I was that guy minus the alcohol.
However, having recently given birth there isn't much at this point capable of really embarrassing me.
Certainly not young little ballerinas thinking poorly of my dance style.
I will go back next week and be just as bad as I was last night because I can hardly remember the moves to practice effectively. I will practice what I remember and it will probably be vastly different from what I'm supposed to be doing. However, I will be
sans any duties for an entire hour.
And that my friends, lets me really feel the music.
