So, You Think You Can Dance?

October 16, 2013 By Kelle

Aware of the importance of entertaining hobbies and interests outside of motherhood, I recently signed up for a modern dance class. I also wanted something that would help me be a little more aware of my posture because it resembles, as my friend Janita so beautifully worded, the dorsal fin of a captive dolphin. I did the yoga thing at the end of the summer and loved it, but I needed to spice things up. I want to move. After stumbling upon a video of Martha Graham a few weeks ago, it was a done deal. Yes. That. I want to be Martha Graham.

I actually took two semesters of modern dance in college. There was even a recital. My mom came. I played a tree. After the recital, my mom smiled, congratulated me for putting myself out there and expressed how much she loved being there. And then she slipped in a little laugh and added, “so the dancing—that was weird.” There’s a lot of—um—contorting. But there’s also a lot of leaping and swaying and this beautiful fluid movement in modern dance that makes you feel like you are powerful and fast and ethereal and can fly. Hmmm. What mythological creature would be described as powerful, fast, ethereal…with wings? I digress.

Anyway, where were we? I thought I had this. After a couple beginner level college courses, that makes me Martha Graham, right? I mean, maybe I should jump right to the advanced class. I went into it way too confident. You guys. I wore a leotard. I mean, I covered it with yoga pants, but still.

As I was leaving for my first class, Lainey asked me where I was going.

“I’m going to a dance class,” I answered proudly.

“You mean Nella’s?” she asked, confused.

“No. Mine. Mommy’s dance class.”

She scrunched up her face and just stood there staring, still confused.

“Lainey, mommies do a lot of things to keep learning about the world because that’s important. That’s why I read and write a lot, that’s why I take pictures and make things. And that’s why I’m taking this class. Just like you love to learn about dance—so do I.”

Another life lesson tucked under my belt, I climbed in the car eager to bring back the ‘ol modern dancer I once was. Once I arrived, I was directed to the largest studio in the back of the building and introduced to the teacher. She was tall and lithe, and every move she made—even brushing her hair off her shoulder—was a beautiful dance. Looking at her, I felt clumpy and awkward.

A few others joined the class (wearing shorts and faded college t-shirts so now I felt like an ass for the leotard) and soon we were in warm-up mode where my confidence took a blow.

We were doing this exercise where we stood on one foot and reached back with one hand to grab the opposite foot. And then we quietly held the stance, listening to the peaceful music and focusing on the mirror. And by “we” I mean them. There were five bodies lined up in the mirror, all of them still swans. Then there was me on the far left, and my arms were flailing and I was leaning all over the place, like a boxer dodging punches, to keep from falling over.

Here’s the thing that sucks about adult modern dance classes. There are mirrors. So you have to see yourself looking like an ass.

And that’s before the actual choreography part.

When we got to choreography, our teacher (who I’ll call Beautiful Graceful Gazelle) broke it down for us.

“So, we’re going to take the first few measures of the song and do this–”

I watched as her gazelle-like body ran out to the middle of the floor and started the magic. She was counting it out: “1 and 2 and 3 and swing. O-ver, kick, jump, jump, bring it in, run and—” all the while performing this aMAZing choreographed dance while she counted. I was awestruck. It was beautiful and she looked like a goddess of light and happiness.

When she finished, everyone shook their head like they got it. They were stretching and plié-ing, getting ready to repeat it and I was all “WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED? You seriously got that?” Because I’m pretty sure my body can’t do that and even if it could, all I remembered was the 1-and-2 part.

But I did it because I paid for the class, and I wasn’t about to let the fear of looking stupid keep me from trying. In fact, don’t ever let the fear of looking stupid keep you from trying.

Okay. I was a disaster. Somewhere in Dance Heaven, Martha Graham buried her head and sighed. I could see the disaster in the mirror even though I tried not to look. I’m trying to think of a good analogy. I was like—an orangutan doing karate. Yes, exactly. Legs kicking all cock-eyed, arms swaying all over the place. And forget keeping the beat. There was this one part after kick, jump, cross left, chasse’ and before spin, lift, jump, jump, plie’ where you had to roll on the floor. And I thought that was simple enough—I mean, I can roll. I couldn’t really remember when that roll part came so I just stayed hunched to the floor through the entire dance, ready to roll when it came so that at least out of a hundred counts, I’d get the four rolling ones right. Hell yeah, I rolled like it was my job.

I don’t know why I couldn’t catch on when no one else seemed to have a problem, but I’ve realized my secret dreams of going on So, You Think You Can Dance and making Mary Murphy stand up and cry are over. But dammit, I can ROLL.

I’m going to try another class. So I can show my kids that I try new things and don’t give up too quickly. And so that I can laugh. I laughed a lot in class last week, pulling that dorsal fin right up nice and straight.

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