When I was five, my kindergarten teacher horrified my mother by telling her that I was poorly coordinated. Our family doctor suggested dance lessons as a remedy. The next thing I knew, I was wearing tap shoes and learning to kick-ball-change. The nadir of my performing career came during a recital when, dancing around a plastic bucket to the strains of "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair," I backed into the bucket and kicked it across the gym.
Despite this inauspicious beginning, I graduated from tap to aerobics to ballroom dancing, but until I met Barry I often went for years at a time without a dance partner. The first few years we were together we danced at least twice a week, either in lessons or at ballroom dances. Sometimes we danced four or five nights in a row. We even occasionally participated in dance formations; fortunately, no buckets were harmed during the performances.
This summer, though, we've been on hiatus. One of our dance instructors only teaches in our area during part of the year; another no longer teaches at the venue closest to us; I'm working days; and Barry doesn't like driving (or being driven) very far at night. Barry has been playing pickleball and working out at the gym and with our Wii to stay in shape. I've just been slowly turning to suet in front of my computer.
However, even as I type, we're watching the first show of this season's Dancing With the Stars, and it's all I can do to stay in my seat. I feel the need to dance rising like maple sap in the spring. Luckily, our fall lessons start a week from Monday. This time we'll be taking foxtrot and swing; another chance to pretend we're Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, or maybe Derek Hough and Cheryl Burke. I'm still not really well-coordinated, but I no longer care.
Damn the buckets - full speed ahead!
"Stifling an urge to dance is bad for your health - it rusts your spirit and your hips." ~Terri Guillemets
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