I Am Learning To Dance

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I am learning to dance. I have wanted to take dancing lessons for at least thirty of my, shall we say politely, somewhat over thirty-five years. How did I reach the momentous decision to take on such a challenge at this late date? I am impulsive by nature, and I had reached that point in life when, for most women, the children no longer require constant attention and supervision and are pursuing their own interests, while time hangs heavy on a mother’s hands. In other words I was bored stiff. Neither a part-time job nor adult education classes held any charms for me. However, an ad in our local newspaper by a well-known dance studio did tickle my fancy. I am not the most self-confident person in the world, and I have an inferiority complex a mile long and a yard wide, but on that day last summer, pulses racing with determination, excitement and enthusiasm, I called the studio and made an appointment. I spent the next few days alternately patting myself on the back for deciding to follow a dream and chiding myself for being ridiculous enough to imagine myself becoming any kind of a dancer at my age.

I stopped counting the times I reached for the telephone to cancel my appointment, and deliberately ignored the snickers of my boys and the indulgent smiles of my spouse (who had decided I was going through an early change). As nervous as I was about the whole thing, I wanted to learn to dance. My mind was made up. At least I thought it was. At last the eagerly anticipated and equally dreaded day arrived, as did I at the studio. As I made my way up the interminably long and seemingly endless flight of stairs (I was to learn later, to my complete surprise, that there weren’t that many stairs at all) leading to the studio I had to battle an overwhelming desire to turn and race back down the way I’d come. Only the fact that my knees had suddenly been transformed from flesh and bone to some strange rubbery substance that convinced me I’d only tumble down headfirst, further humiliating myself, prevented my flight. The realization of what I was actually doing had suddenly dawned on me and I couldn’t help wondering what on earth I, an over-weight, middle-aged housewife with a husband and three sons at home, was doing here even contemplating dancing lessons.

The idea was ridiculous. What would my friends and neighbors think if they heard about it? I’d never live it down. They’d attribute it to “middle-age madness” that’s what they’d do. I thought about my best friend enjoying her ceramics class, my sister-in-law who had just taken up interior decorating to fill her spare time. I thought of my many other friends and their docile hobbies, and here I was thinking of dancing lessons. Hardly a fitting pastime for a dignified and matronly person such as I considered myself.

I decided I could not go through with it after all. I would simply tell the sweet young lady at the desk that I’d made an error. I really had intended going to the blood center next door. Perhaps poor eyesight would explain why I had failed to see the fourteen-foot sign over the door outside that plainly stated “DANCE STUDIO” in large letters. Before I could make my excuses something stubborn and obstinate inside me won out. I did want to learn to dance, and come heck, high water, or the opinion of my neighbors, I would.

Quaking with nervousness and the old self-consciousness I despised, I approached the desk and identified myself. Within seconds it seemed, my future instructor was paged, appeared, and we were introduced. I would like to make a statement at this time, just for the record. Never once in the days proceeding my phone call to the studio did I expect Fred Astaire, Authur Murray, Gene Kelly, or even loveable Donald Duck to teach me to dance. I hadn’t given the matter any thought at all, which was probably for the best. What I did not expect, however, was the pleasant, smiling young man who stood before me now neatly attired in slacks and a pullover sweater and looking hardly older that my oldest son who was just starting his second year in college! Somehow the idea of this poor helpless young man pushing my heavy frame around a dance floor was appalling, and I’m positive that if he hadn’t had a firm grip on my hand I would have fled back down the stairs, headfirst or otherwise and the devil take my dignity. Mr. Blair, with an instinct inherent only to dance instructors (whose insurance rates are only slightly lower that those of driving instructors) obviously sensed my distress, for before I could utter more than a few unintelligible sentences, or move a muscle of my own voluntarily, I found myself on the studio dance floor, my face beet red, my feet feeling five times their normal size, being led through the basic steps of the Rumba. Rumba yet! Followed by Fox Trot, Waltz, Cha Cha no less, and so on. To be honest I was not aware of any of them at the time, or of what I was doing, my only thought at the moment being, if they would only unlock the doors and let me out (I realized in my saner moments that they don’t really lock you in, it only seems that way) I would never return. I had no intention that afternoon, as I moved tensely around the floor, of ever making another appointment, regardless of how much I wanted to dance. But, possibly under hypnosis, I did and I continued to do so.

The next few lessons were an agony of embarrassment to me, even though I looked forward to them in a masochistic sort of way. I believe I convinced myself that at some time in my life, or possibly in another life, I must have committed some terrible deed, and this was my sub-conscious way of punishing myself. Only a deep-rooted desire for self-torture could induce me to continue these grueling lessons. Swing steps! Cha Cha! Moving my body (or attempting to) in ways I’d never dreamed possible (and found almost impossible.) Constantly trying to avoid my obese reflection in the monolithic mirrors placed strategically around the room.

Worst of all, in my self-conscious state, and most embarrassing, always that young, eager, smiling face before me. Please understand I haven’t a thing against youth. I love young people and always have. Somehow though, in those early days, dancing with this agile young man made me feel as light-footed and sprite-like as an oversized elephant being led around a circus ring by a proud and spirited racehorse.

Eventually, coming out of my self-conscious stupor, I began to take notice of others around me. I discovered that I was not the only one who had been afflicted by the strange malady of middle-age madness. On the contrary, there were quite a few ladies, and gentlemen too, who has passed middle age some time ago. I watched them in awe, pondering over the special glow they seemed to radiate as they moved gracefully and confidently about the floor with their instructors, their faces shining with such a special radiance that I was sure somewhere within the studio was hidden the long sought after Fountain of Youth.

The instructors, I noted, male and female, were all very young, just as mine was, I wondered suspiciously if they quietly eliminated dance instructors at the ripe old age of twenty-five. It took several hours of lessons, but in time Mr. Blair managed to put me at ease. Amazingly enough I found that one-day I was actually able to look him in the eye as we progressed in our lessons, rather than focusing my attention on some obscure point over his head or beyond his shoulder. I realized for the first time just what a wonderful dancer and fine teacher he was, and, thereafter, I found it easy and enjoyable, for me at least, to carry on a conversation with him as he put me through my paces. It was then that I began to relax and enjoy my lessons, looking forward to the days when I went to the studio rather than placing them in the same category as a trip to the dentist. I discovered, too, why all the instructors were so young, and with my discovery solved the mystery of the youthfulness of the students. How could anyone not feel young around these remarkable young people! It is amazing how young people can put you at ease. Especially the young instructors at my studio, (as I, by that time had possessively begun to think of it.) They all had such a wonderful quality about them, with their joking, easy going manner, the way they could make anyone relax, the way they welcomed each and every student as a very special person. The warm and wonderful way they treated everyone, regardless of whom they were, how old or young they were, how inexperienced they might be, or how slow they might be to learn. Their beautiful words of encouragement, their compliments over the smallest triumph, would not allow anyone to give up, even when your own self-esteem faltered. They had, in essence, the magic ability of giving you the chance to really have fun, and most important, to enable one, for an hour at least, to drift back in time and of actually feeling young again, eager and enthusiastic of the opportunity to learn, improve and move forward to far more graceful dancing than ever dreamed possible, and thought too late to learn. They proved to many that it is never too late to learn, and because they proved it, the wonderful young instructors at my studio were the elusive Fountain of Youth I had wondered about. The steps Mr. Blair taught me became easier and easier to execute. With patience and perseverance, and having his feet trampled on with torturing regularity (dance instructors not only deserve the Congregational Medal of Honor but the Purple Heart as well) he was actually teaching me to dance.

I’ve learned quite a bit in the few months since I answered that little advertisement. Dancing is not just a means of enjoyment at weddings or similar social functions. It is far more. There is a certain joy and fulfillment in every step mastered. A deep satisfaction in the fact that you are learning not only to place your foot in the proper place at the right time and to the correct tempo; but that you are developing a skill, and art that has existed for hundreds of years depicting every emotion, every desire possible. One that fills you with contentment and pride. A closer and far more meaningful appreciation of music is born as scores and melodies take on a new dimension. As you listen and really hear with a new sensitivity, different rhythms, sounds, and meanings. It is that newfound awareness that creates the glow of the “new person” I have become. I cannot deny that I am pleased with the new person I have become since I trembled my way up the stairs last summer. If I had only known then what I know now, I would have run up the stairs two at a time. My disposition is better than it has been in years. Certainly, I am no longer bored. I am still self-conscious to a point but I’m sure that too will disappear in time. I am well over thirty pounds lighter (Thanks to the mirrors at the studio and daily practice sessions at home). Most important, I am doing something I like to do being taught by talented people I enjoy knowing and being with. I have been asked if my lessons aren’t expensive. My reply is that you cannot put a price tag on contentment.
Will I continue going to the studio? Absolutely. As a matter of fact I have to leave right now. I have a lesson in twenty minutes.

I wouldn’t want to keep good old Mr. Blair waiting.