There are so many subjects that I’d probably get a C- in, and dancing just happens to be one of them. I barely scraped past PE 2, and I’m not exactly dance troupe material. Sure, I can pick up a step or two. But the thing is, I just don’t have the passion. And the grace.
So when I got a message inviting those who cared to join to a production-number practice, I was a no-show. Apparently, so was everybody else. This merited a second, more demanding, message: we had to dance, period.
As it turned out, not even two left feet, or stiff joints made stiffer still by the passage of time, could stop us from strutting our stuff. On the first day of practice, there were groans as limbs on the verge of arthritis were stretched and extended and exercised. On the second day, what passed for dancing took on more rhythmic patterns. Third-day practice was sidetracked as the much younger—and sprightlier trainer—begged off, leaving us a mass of uncoordinated, hyperventilating mess.
We’re doing the dance again later today. Crazy, but everyone seems to be excited. We’d probably never pull it off, but then it’s not so much perfection were after as the chance to reconnect, to laugh at our past and present selves.
Call time is roughly two weeks from now. Call it temporary insanity, or call it a manifestation of strength in numbers, but this time, I am very much in on the dance.