O Happy Day

I’m not a fan of science fiction and fantasy so I have not read any of Robert Fanney’s works. But I ran across a quote of his that I like. In my experience, nothing worthwhile has ever really been all that easy. But it certainly has been worthwhile regardless how difficult it seemed. This explains my  line dancing experience. Read on for that story that has been submitted for consideration into a future Chicken Soup book, entitled The Golden Years or Second Wind. 

O Happy Day

 

It was time to choose some extracurricular activities – something physical.  I was sliding into retirement, now working two days a week. In a year I would be fully retired from a nursing career that had kept me busy, focused, and content with parking my backside into the recliner at the end of the day. Hmmm…I wonder what I would enjoy. Neither biking nor running appealed to me; I wanted physical, not torture.

When my friend, Janice, suggested I try line dancing, my thoughts immediately went to the dance scene in the movie Pure Country. In his soothing western swing style, you hear George Strait singing “She Lays It All on the Line” as every sexy body – turns, stomps, and sways in perfect synchronization. Smiles light up everyone’s face and all burdens are forgotten.

“Sure,” I said, “sign me up.” How hard could it be?  After all, the class was at the community Senior Center.

Thursday couldn’t get here quick enough. In my fantasy world I was going to go into class, a Lucille Ball, and come out a Ginger Rogers. When Thursday finally came, I soon found out the only thing that remotely connected me to Ginger Rogers was that the instructor shared her first name.

It was the Thursday before Thanksgiving when I walked into that first class. I had imagined this to be a class of rookies…like we would all learn one step at a time until the entire group got the hang of it. Then we would move onto the next step and by the end of class we would put it all together where we would gracefully dance our way out of Queen Hall. But no, I soon found out that my imagination had led me down a fallacious path. This was a class that “took beginners”. The majority of the group had been dancing for at least a year and some for many more years than that.

“Today we will continue practicing the numbers that we’ll be performing at the Dorsett Care Center for the Christmas program,” Ginger announced to the group. I realized I was the only newbie in the bunch when Ginger singled me out and asked, “Have you had any dance experience?”

“Uh…not much. Did a little square dancing years ago.”  I purposely omitted that I was knee high to a grasshopper and wearing saddle shoes when that happened.

“Grab a spot in the middle where you will have an experienced dancer on every side of you to watch. Just do your best.” (I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that, but it was too late to run – I was now surrounded by the all women posse.)

Maureen, the teacher’s assistant, began calling out the steps as the music started.  Wow…these ladies knew just what to do; this wasn’t their first rodeo! “Rhumba box,” she called. Every single one of them moved to the left, then to the front, to the right, and back again. Maybe not as sexy, but every bit as synchronized as the scene in “Pure Country.” Oh my, I was out of my league – an uncoordinated newborn filly in the center of a room full of thoroughbreds. Maureen continued to callout unknown phrases – jazz box, kick ball change, mambo, Charleston – no one missing a beat. Except me, of course, – who stood dumbfounded, managing occasionally to face the correct wall.

I know, you’re thinking I was crazy to go back the second week. I thought so too, but that scene from “Pure Country” just wouldn’t leave me alone.  What if….even if it took me months to get it… Besides, I reasoned – the fact that your brain has to talk to your feet must be great preventive medicine for Alzheimer’s.

But that’s where the rub lies. There didn’t seem to be an easy pathway from my brain to my feet. There was no doubt in my mind (and everyone else’s) that my pathway had an overabundance of detours, loop de loops, and sinkholes.

I saw newbies starting weeks after I did that caught on to the steps like a fish to a worm. While these women skipped confidently into the intermediate class, I continued to go home week after week – practicing my steps with my home instructor – You Tube.

I still remember the day – month’s later – when I was able to complete an entire beginner’s dance without a flaw! I was more than Ginger Rogers – I was Amelia Earhart – flying high! The other women were as thrilled for me as I was for myself. They cheered, patted me on the back, and began telling me how they admired that I had stuck with it when it seemed very challenging for me.  (A kind way of saying, I was the worst they had ever encountered.)

It’s been almost two years ago since I started that class. I can now do the rhumba box, the jazz box, the kick ball change, the mambo, the Charleston, and a host of other beginner’s steps without thinking about it. What I am thinking about is advancing to the intermediate class.