Private Dancer
Private Dancer
“So you can’t dance,” said my husband. “What’s the big deal?”
“Spoken like a dancer,” I huffed. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
Good dancers never do. They think gross motor skills grow on trees. For them dancing is as natural as breathing, and nothing makes them feel more superior than having a dance asthmatic in their midst. In fact, the best way to determine whether someone is a good dancer is to tell them you’re not. Their eyes will light up, and they’ll start to salivate a little.
“What do you mean you can’t dance?” they’ll prod. “Surely you’re not as bad as you think.”
And because I so want them to be right, I take the bait every time. Within seconds, I’m in their cubicle doing the Electric Slide.
“Maybe if you loosen up a little?” they snort. “And stop holding your arms up like meat hooks?”
“I hold my arms like this to keep them from flying off my body,” I explain for the umpteen millionth time. “It’s a safety precaution.”
I’ve always dreamed of being a good dancer. To me, there’s nothing sexier or more feminine, but mine is a body at odds with itself. My feet refuse to take orders from my brain, and my hips can hardly stand to be in the same room together. If it weren’t for my pelvis, they would have parted ways years ago.
In my own mind I’m still that chubby 5-year-old in the dance recital, with her protruding belly and too-tight leotard riding up in back. Yes, the one blocking everyone’s view of your dainty blonde daughter. And yes, the one who keeps crashing into the trellis.
Growing up hasn’t made it any easier. When I was a kid, great dancers were the exception in this country. Now they’re the rule. “America’s Got Talent,” “Dancing with the Stars,” “So You Think You Can Dance?”, “Crime Scene Investigation: Special Dance Unit.” Dancers are everywhere.
And then, of course, there’s my inner critic. The one who hates the way I write, the way I eat, the way I jog and work and parent. She’s a ballet instructor.
I know I should ignore her. At least once a week someone will send me an inspiring email encouraging me to sing like no one is listening! Love like I’ve never been hurt! And, my personal favorite: Dance like nobody’s watching!
“Of course they want you to dance like nobody’s watching,” my inner critic says. “It would be HILARIOUS.”
Now don’t get me wrong. I know not everyone can be the next Baryshnikov. And not everyone can get an “A” in high school aerobics. As it turns out, not everyone can eke out a respectable “B-.” But for once, just once, I would like to dance like nobody’s watching, and have it feel true.
