So I Think I Can Dance
I’m going to die. The closer I get to it, the more I believe it might be true. Yes, this realization may be somber, but it’s also motivating. It also makes me somewhat delusional.
I was watching So You Think You Can Dance the other night, and I thought to myself: I can do that! In fact, I must do that!
I Googled “Adult Dance.” I perused the startling content involving lucite stripper heels and in-home pole installation for a moment, and clicked “Back.”
I Googled “Adult JAZZ Dance.” I found a little studio right down the street! Then, I conducted some essential recognizance before showing up with my my old-lady, mother-of-two self:
Dance Studio: Hello?
Dance Studio: Hello??
Me: Um, do you have adult dance classes?
Me: Okay…so, um, how “Adult” are we talking here? A bunch of 18-year-old “adults,” or do you go truly geriatric?
DS: Well, I’m 38 and I’m in the class, so that’s pretty old.
Me: Yeah. I remember thinking that too, when I was your tender age.
Me: So, what do the young kids wear these days in dance class?
DS: I wear yoga pants and a t-shirt.
DS: And jazz boots.
Me: Cool! Wait, boots? I have jazz shoes.
DS: Yeah, no. They don’t use those old lace-up ones anymore.
Me: Oh. Right. No, of course not. Pshh. How dumb would that be.
Despite this dubious conversation, I pressed on. Being elderly does have its benefits. For example, it gives you the chutzpah to do something new even though you will possibly (probably) stand out like a sore thumb. There will be bright lights and lots of more experienced eyes upon me. But, since I’m gonna die anyway, I figure, it’s now or NEVER. And, I just can’t let that happen. Because. I. Must. Dance. Or, at least flail about, joyously, in pseudo-rhythm.
So, basically, what I’m hesitant to commit to in writing here is that..I just signed up for dance class.
Hold me, people.
(To find out how it went, click here.)