Gotta Dance

I had a busy week. I am physically ready to drop. Mentally, I am a potato. And the hits keep coming. Email is populating my computer screen like a game of Asteroids. Phone calls are nonstop and they are often whiny in nature. People whose universe is centered upon their naval keep coming in my office.

I'm a practical and centered person. Yes but even practical folk have a breaking point.

When I walked into my apartment last night, rather stressed after a long day and my usual 90 minute demolition derby commute from work, Fang had the TV on. It was some holiday bullshit special. The ecclesiastical music was soaring and gloriously inspirational. I strode in and immediately exclaimed, "Aw, shut that fucking shit off!"

It was going to be a good night.

I need a Happy Place. Something. Anything. Anyone.

As I changed out of my work clothes, Fang and I chatted. For a reason completely foreign to me, I started telling him a story from my childhood that I had buried for decades. Fang has been with me for 22 years and has never heard this--and yet he seemed to be riveted.

And so I shall I share it with you.

When I was 7 years old, I was a rather energetic child. I heard music in my head and felt the spirit--I flayed around with inspiration. I spontaneously blurted out in song and dance, completely and beautifully uninhibited. Soon enough I became an adolescent and I actually started to give a shit what other people thought of me. That will give you your first reality check. Complacency is a very sorry thing.

The example I cited to Fang is still painful to me, even 40 years later. Yet in my memory this is as fresh as yesterday. I loved and still has a passion for dance. I hear music and I respond instinctively. Growing up, I wanted to channel my childish dancing into structured dance expression, My mother, bless her, enrolled me in a ballet class. I endeavored hard for months. When we were finally handed the elite fluffy tulle costumes and the opportunity to demonstrate in front of a biased parental audience, I was thrilled. Back in the third row of performers for the final performance, I felt my very dream had come true.

I genuflected. I wove my arms in poetic patterns. I dipped low as I emulated a humble swan. It was fantastic.

After the performance, my mother came backstage. She embraced me with pride. I remember this sweet and perfect moment with such warm delight still. The ballet mistress then strode up and said to my mother (in rather harsh and in my limited memory, hard Germanic accent), "Your daughter is clumsy. She is not a ballet dancer. She's terrible and she's heavy footed. She won't do and she will have to leave the troop." I was standing right there. It was a rather traumatic moment for a 7 year old and I remember it like it was yesterday.

I do recall I was rather distressed that what felt like free expression of movement was clearly not acceptable. After some childish tears, I accepted that I would never be a ballet dancer. But I also remember thinking I still needed to dance.

So here's the deal. After a few days of trauma of my first key life rejection, my mother suggested that I try tap dance. I did. I practiced for months. I donned the glittering leotard and feathery headpiece. I time-stepped my heart out. And for the final recital, I had the lead position. We kicked ass. We had the crowd. They loved us. Finally, validation.

It was a life lesson. When people tell you that you're not good enough--invest some faith and reassess. And then go out and prove them wrong.