SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE?

Beginning with my stellar performance of “I'm a Little Teapot” at four years of age, I've always danced like nobody's watching.

 

When I was a teenager, my highest aspiration was to become a dignified dancing Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader.  Either that, or a Fireman.  Instead, I grew up to be a wife and mother. 

Not that any of those life choices are mutually exclusive.  In fact, I prefer to believe I managed to incorporate all of the above into one slightly dysfunctional slice of life: I became a mother who wore spandex while putting out toaster fires. 

 

I was a stay-at-home Mom who settled for teaching aerobics instead of pursuing fame as a Solid Gold Dancer (only because the commute to L.A. was too far). Honestly, those Solid Gold chicks had nothing on my tightly spandexed butt.  Gimme a pair of leg warmers with a matching headband, crank up the ABBA cassette, and I WAS THE DANCING QUEEN. Why, yes...yes I was.

Not satisfied with being a mere Aerobic Instructor, I ambitiously clawed my way to the top of the aerobics chain until I was offered the coveted title of Aerobic Coordinator.  Too sexy for my spandex, indeed!

 

But as anyone who has ever donned a leotard knows:  With great honor comes great responsibility.

 

When Lucas was 11 and Jacob was 8, I made the uncomfortable and unwise decision to leave them at home under the watchful eye of  Saturday Morning Cartoons (Ninja Turtle Power!) whilst I ran off to teach a one-hour aerobic class for an instructor who had called in sick.

 

And there I was  - right in the middle of a donkey kick -  when I looked up to see my neighbor and two sheepishly smiling sons standing in the door of the exercise room.

Apparently the Ninja Turtles had seduced Jacob to leave his toast in the toaster long enough to set off smoke alarms which alerted his older brother to call 'that 911 number' resulting in all my neighbors and assorted fire department employees voting to kick me off the nominee list for Mother of the Year – 1991.

 

Still, I was not deterred from following my dream to dance.

 

A few years later, I purchased four primo tickets for The Nutcracker Ballet.  I can't even tell you how excited I was to attend this acclaimed production for the very first time!  The only problem was that I had purchased the other three tickets for my guys, foolishly thinking they would share in my excitement of getting all  dressed up to sit in a crowded theatre for two hours and watch Talented People in Tights Glide Across The Stage.  I carefully dressed for the Big Event in my most festive Holiday Frock and hair poofed up to the sky (the higher the hair, the closer to Jesus!).  I assumed my fellers were grooming themselves likewise, in eager anticipation. Not wanting to be late for the curtain call, I rushed into the living room to gather the guys...only to discover with dismay they were unclean, undressed, and completely absorbed in an episode of Beavis and Butthead.

 

I planted my well-coiffed and thoroughly pissed-off self smack dab in front of the television, fluffing up the furor of my indignation like a tu-tu.  With tears in my eyes and no small amount of drama, I said something to the effect:

 

“All my life, all I've ever wanted to be is a ballerina. And finally...FINALLY...I get to go see this wonderful ballet – spend my hard-earned aerobics money to buy tickets for YOU TURDS to go to this wonderful ballet with me  – and you couldn't care less!  I put up with your burping and your farting and your scratching and all I've ever asked of you is THIS ONE THING. But NO. Nooooo!  I can't believe you stinking Buttheads had to ruin my Special Night!”

 

Three pairs of blue-green eyes looked back at me as though I had grown seven heads, one of  which was spinning around spewing dark slime.

 

[Truth be told, I was probably on my period and slightly hormonal.]

 

To this day, if I ever start getting all girlie on them, my boys love to torture me with The Nutcracker Speech.

 

Somewhere along the way, I realized that Very Few of the Very Best Ballerinas are blessed with Thunder Thighs.  This realization forced me to give up my dream of starring in Swan Dance and to begin looking for something more suitable to my un-ballerina-ish frame.

 

That's when I discovered Tap Dancing...the rhythmical cure for all pear-shaped-wannabe-dancing-divas.  No tu-tus required!  A few girlfriends and I signed up for a beginner's class at Amarillo College.

Yet, once again, life wreaked havoc on my dancing career.  I kept missing class and falling further and further behind. The only time I could find to practice was while cooking dinner. Picture this:  me in my tap shoes, Hamburger Helper sizzling in the skillet, me click-click-clicking my way between the fridge and stove like a happy housewife hoofer. 

 

All-in-all, a mediocre effort which left me with nothing to show for it except a pair of dusty, impotent tap shoes stashed away in the top of the closet. Right beside my tu-tu.

 

When our boys finally left the nest, I came up with a new way to feed my dancing dreams:  I signed up for Ballroom Dancing. I signed the Dickman up, too.

 

And after we flunked the first session, I doggedly signed us up for another.

 

Suffice it to say, the Dickman took to ballroom dancing like a mermaid takes to high top sneakers.

 

It just didn't click for us. We danced like a couple who was staying together for the sake of the children...all awkward and tense and painful. I would become frustrated with Dickie and start yelling at him like that  mean dance dictator on Dance Moms:  "No!  Slow down!!! You're going too fast.  Start with your RIGHT foot...your other RIGHT foot!  Quit pulling on me!  Turn to the OUTSIDE...!!"

 

Funny thing about the Dickman:  he is a ridiculously gifted drummer and talented athlete, but his left-handedness goes all the way down to...his two left feet. I'm not saying he dances as bad as Buzz Aldrin, but still…severely grapevine and box-step impaired, he is.

 

And because he is so fiercly competitive, what he lacks in technique he makes up for in, uh...let's go with  passion. Not a positive asset in a crowded ballroom filled with people who actually  recognize a Rumba from a Fox Trot.  We managed to turn ballroom dancing into a full-contact sport, literally taking people out with our dance moves. Dickie even pulled a muscle that wasn't his.

 

[Babe, if you are reading this, you know I'm just trying to be funny.  Literary License and all that. You can SO drop it like it's hot.]

 

Ultimately, we sacrificed our turn on the ballroom floor for the greater good of the class and all of mankind.

 

After going through all that agony of de-feet, you would think we would never wanna dance again.  Guilty feet have got no rhythm...right?

 

Wrong.  Our hope for twinkling toes continued to spring eternal.

With a group of likewise-impaired dancing friends, we signed up for Beginning Country Western Dance classes.

Ladies and Gentlemen,  I am proud to announce that The Dickman and I successfully graduated as Officially Licensed Country Western Dancers. (Hold your applause, please.)

 

Yes, I said successful.  Keep in mind that I use the word in its most forgiving definition.  Which means that while our individual senses of rhythm are still not completely in tune...somehow, over a grueling eight weeks, we finally managed to convert our Texas 3 1/2-Step into something very close to a gen-u-ine Texas 2-Step.

 

It wasn't easy.  I mean, look...it's me and the Dickman; between the two of us...it's never easy and it's never clear, who's to navigate and who's to steer.

But this time, THIS TIME...he had a Hot Dang Cowboy teaching him how to lead.

 

The lessons went something like this:

 

Instructor to Dickman: "Jest grab aholt of that bump back there below her shoulder, that's how you steer her".

 

Dickman to Instructor:  "You mean her shoulder blade?" 

 

Robin to Instructor: "You mean my scapula?”

 

Instructor to Dickman: “No, that roll back yonder.  You kin jest grab right onto it and with a little pressure, you kin take her wherever you want her to go.”

Robin to Instructor: “You mean my fat roll?”

 

Instructor to Robin: “Uh...er...no, no. I mean, that uh...'curve'. Grab aholt of the curve.”

 

[Note to the Hot Dang Cowboy: curves and rolls are NOT the same thing, dude.]

 

Regardless, Dickie listened to the cowboy and took 'aholt' of my fat roll, with more pressure than was either necessary or comfortable.  Then he started pushing me around that dance floor...and, one-two-three-one-two-three, LOOK! We're dancing!

 

What?!  Is it possible that after 35 years of meandering to a different beat with my left-footed drummer...We.Are.Finally.Dancing? In rhythm?  On a dance floor?  Shut The Front Door!

 

In the spirit of full disclosure, our boot scooting is far from perfect. We are a work in progress. Even though he still pushes more than he leads, even though I spend most of my time trying to guess what he's gonna do before he does it (story of my life), even though it's not very pretty because I'm sweating like I have four armpits and trying to coerce body parts into stopping when the music does...somehow, in spite of ourselves, we have finally turned our stumbling into dancing.

 

Can you believe it? Old Dogs Learning New Tricks, working together to accomplish a heretofore unattainable goal. 

 

Ladies and Gentlemen, now you may applaud.  Or better yet...

Jazz hands, y'all.