A few days ago I found myself
dancing in the kitchen and then like a leaky faucet, I spread to the living
room. I just couldn't stop—what do you call it?—grooving? getting down? None of
the words fit because they weren't familiar. Until two months ago when I
started taking a range of dance fitness classes, unless I was trying to get a
certain unnamed someone’s attention by flailing in front of the television, I did
not dance. Now I do it unintentionally, almost like I have dance-Tourrete’s often
in the car when I allow myself the guilty pleasure of listening to a top forty
station (my equivalent of reading celebrity fashion magazines in the dentist’s
office). Why is this such a shock? Because not being able to dance has been an
important cornerstone in the foundation of the monument I've built to all the
things I can’t do.
Also on the list? Singing. A voice
teacher once told me I was tone deaf, which I- and many others- had already
suspected. When I told my mother, who’d made a habit of singing with me in the
car everyday, she sighed heavily and said, “Well, I tried.” Who told me I couldn't run? Who didn't? It
seemed like everyone, including my very best friends laughed when I
more-than-walked. I laughed with them while internally adding another brick to
the Temple of Can’t. I still sing to myself and I do occasionally
run—especially when I see my son’s bus rounding the corner--but dance combines more
complex elements—rhythm, coordination, confidence and grace. More than anyone
with a rigid structure of shame and self-doubt can juggle on the dance floor.
Perhaps my anti-dance stance started
somewhere around elementary school when I came in last place in the school dance
competition. Or maybe after hearing that my moves fall somewhere between Elaine’s
on Seinfeld and Sarah Silverman’s impersonation of an old lady freaking out at
a Bar Mitzvah. In any case, I was still willing to try at 16, when my mother,
in an attempt to keep us kids safe off the streets and safe from sex and drugs,
started a “Teen Square Dance Group.” Yes, I wore her matching square dance
outfits but even more outrageous than me outfitted in hillbilly frills was the
fact that my friends—my cool, alternative, punk rock friends--actually came out
to do the dos-e-do. I still don’t know whether to be forever grateful or
forever mortified. Maybe I didn't stick with dance because, flawless as my
mother’s plan was, I still managed to find sex and drugs-- another routine
altogether.
Several years ago when I explained my
disabilities to my therapist, she made a compilation of my favorite songs,
writing “You CAN run, you CAN sing, you CAN dance” on the CD in black sharpie. But
restructuring the foundation is more difficult than building it. Still, as someone
who helps push people to their creative edge for a living, advocating for
exploration beyond the comfort zone, I realized I was a hypocrite for staying
safely in mine. Although I stumbled into my first dance class in years thinking I’d
shown up for gentle yoga, I returned on purpose. And I fell in love. I have
never laughed, sweated and salsa-ed with more happy reckless abandon in my life.
It’s not necessarily that I’m getting better with each class, it’s that I care
less if I suck. When I leave, I feel glorious. Like a dancing queen.
At a recent parent’s coffee, I told
one of the moms that I'm going through this bizarre phase where I don't care
how stupid I look flailing around in a spandex polyester blend behind glass
walls. She smiled at me and said, “I hope it’s not just a phase.” I do, too.
