Dancing RevisitedPosted: May 12, 2011
I had so much fun at my dance class last week, that I thought I would go again. Actually, I was sure I was going again. Nothing was going to stop me from being there. I love dancing. I loved the class and it was going to be great. The dance teacher was away for a couple of weeks and a new guy was standing in with his different class, but it was still dance so it was going to be fun. It would be steps, but I could handle steps. In fact, I would probably ace it. I was feeling great about it. Yeehaa!
I thought I should probably get there a bit early and do some stretches before class. I have a bad back and I’m at that age that if I don’t stretch I’ll pay for it later. Normally, I’d worry about how I would look doing all that wanky stuff at the gym (as if that wasn’t the perfect place for it), but given that I was feeling great about myself, I figured I deserved to be there and wasn’t I going to be great in class?
As I was walking into the gym I saw a girl from the class last week. We had had one of those a-ha! moments in class where we recognised that each of us we had danced in a previous life and had given each other the “nod”. So we nodded again to each other, exchanged small chit chat over locker doors and last minute deodorant sprays ready to sweat it out on the dance floor.
I was pumped. The music started, there was a bit of step and touch, step and touch and then we were off. The class is called Sh’Bam which features “simple but seriously hot dance moves”. In reality it was 80’s aerobics minus the leotards aimed towards a class of women who used to attend aerobics classes in the 80s give or take a few younger women (my nodding acquaintence included). But it was FUN. Oh, great fun. You know you’re getting old when you can go to a dance class on your own and still have fun.
Anyways, I stood behind the younger version of me (although a little less disciplined, because I was, like, you know still better than her) and danced my cholesterol challenged heart out for the best part of an hour. I could do hip-hop, I was Christina, I was Katy and I had a crack at being a single lady, but that track was at the end and I was a bit tired by then.
Occasionally I caught sight of myself in the mirror and realised I looked like my Mum dancing at a family wedding, but I realised the mirror was not a true reflection of me and instead I used my mind’s eye to project what I really looked like. Oh, in my head I was very happy.
I realise that being only one of a few Caucasians in a sea of Asian faces is going to make me stand out – after 5 years, it’s something that I’m quite used to. However, Asians are not as used to Caucasian faces turning bright red after vigorous exercise. My face in particular turns very, very red and stays that way for a long time after the music has ended and consequently, I think my Asian counterparts think my heart is about to explode.
Of course, I don’t remember any of this while I’m having a great time shaking my ass and looking in my mind’s eye. To me, I am ready to be picked out of the crowd and asked to be the next dance instructor because I’m like, you know, so good at this stuff.
I finish the class exhausted but exhilerated. Sure I couldn’t finish the last number because my sciatica was threatening to cripple me if I stayed in that one position for a second longer, but hell, it was only my second week and I was killing it man! My ability could speak for itself.
I started to walk out of that class feeling like a million bucks. I slapped that instructor’s hand in a high five like half a dozen young nubile things before me and leaned forward to hear what he had to say to me. To me! He was talking to me! He leaned forward right into my face and said: “You did really well” as if speaking to a senior who had just negotiated three steps without falling, “keep it up.”