…a… five six seven eight!!

“Whatcha doing tomorrow night?” I text Rissa. “Do you feel like having a sleepover?”

“Yes! Definitely,” she responds. “Only thing on my schedule is a dance class at 8:00 pm.”

“I could ride up on the subway with you and then wait while you do the class,” I suggest.

“Sure that works!”

“Okey dokey. What’s the dance studio again? Maybe I’ll sign up for a class ;-)”

“Ohmygosh DO IT!!”

“Hah! Okay, we’ll see.”

I’m not a dancer. I’m a mover who can count beats. Rissa is the dancer. Her facility for movement astounds me.

I’m the one who usually opts out of dance.

“This number’s looking a little cluttered,” a choreographer might suggest. “Anyone okay to just be upstage for this?” The speed at which my hand flies into the air? Could break the sound barrier.

And yet? My face is a fabulous dancer. I know how to sell a dance. Usually in a clowny ‘Look over here! Look over here’ way. The misdirection my face gives can usually distract from what my feet aren’t doing.

Just for fun, I look on the dance studio’s website to see what class Rissa might have signed up for. There’s a Contemporary Fusion – no way in hell I can do that one. Broadway Jazz is the another option.

I text her again. “Broadway Jazz?” She responds with a jazz hands emoji, assuring me that it’s a beginners/intermediate class. Rissa loves going to the beginners/intermediate class now that she’s 6 years out of competitive dancing. She feels like a pro when learning a combination.

On Monday afternoon, I drive into the city. I’m 15 minutes later than I’d hoped, which means that I wind up spending an extra 75 minutes in rush hour traffic – with my foot on the clutch, my left quad cursing me. Somewhere in the last year, both of my quads have become the problem children of my body.

Rissa and I take the subway up to Dupont and then walk about 25 minutes west from there. City Dance Corps is stunning – tall ceilings, expansive changing areas, large studios. Lots of people milling around. I’m surprised by the number of people in the building. Rissa does the drop-in classes so that she can work them in around her nursing schedule.

I peek into other studios as we’re waiting. There’s a contemporary class where they’re showcasing a combo you’d find on So You Think You Can Dance. Another studio has a single girl, maybe 6 or 7, in her ballet pink leotard and skirt. She’s rocking a toque as she works one-on-one with an instructor. Kid’s pointing her wee little feet and doing perfect ballet runs across the floor. Another studio has some heavy-hitting krump.

“Ummmmm…” I begin. My left quad is complaining from over-clutching during the drive in. I reach behind me, pull my heel to my butt, trying to loosen the muscle.

“Beginner/Intermediate class, Ma,” reminds Rissa. “You’ll be fine.”

“Will I, though?”

Rissa rolls her eyes and herds me into the room. There are maybe 8 of us in the class. Everybody’s stretching. I know how to stretch. Stretching my quads, stretching my hamstrings… stretch, stretch, stretch. It’s all good.

Instructor comes in. She immediately throws on some base-heavy warm-up music which ricochets off the walls. Rissa looks at me and point to her ears, mouthing “Earplugs?” I reach into my bag and grab my noise-dampening ear plugs, which have become essential in adapting to Meniere’s Disease. The ear plugs give me much better odds to avoid falling to the ground.

My focus is on the instructor’s lips as I do my best to follow her instructions for the stretches. She’s suggesting a pretzel stretch. Right leg over the left knee, turning the torso… where? Where am I turning my torso??

“Okay, we’re doing some crosses,” she yells. “Step, kick! Step kick! Shoulders down! Chins up! Groups of two!”

Rissa and I make eye contact. In our heads we’re both singing the opening from A Chorus Line. I do my step, kick – my leg a respectable 90 degrees from the floor. There is no point in pretending I’m not 55.

Rissa kicks so that her thigh brushes against her ear. The instructor immediately grabs her and another actual dancer to give them a more advanced exercise. “Step, kick! Step, side! Step, back! Turn, kick!” The rest of us continue with our step kicking. I’m pointing my toes. I’ve got this. Everyone crosses from one corner to the next and then walks along the wall to the other corner to repeat.

“Next pass! Everyone step, kick! Step, side! Step, back! Turn, kick!” I’m good until the turn. My ears no longer love turning. I immediately modify. Not a problem.

Our combination will be from Hairspray. “New Girl in Town.” Excellent. Lots of posing and hip rolling and attitude. I can sell attitude. I’ve got this. Looking around, I feel chuffed because I’m definitely middle of the pack. It’s all good. And then we get to the popping our chests, with our hands flapping in and out around our boobs, squatting, arching our back and then rolling up. My body, she does not move like this. I fake it with a sassy smile. Rissa snorts.

Next is a quick spin to the… Nope. I swallow the tiniest bit of barf as my inner ears take control of my body. I breathe deeply through my nose. All good. I skip the spin the next time, but act the shit out of the lyric. My eyebrows have so much swag to them. We do the combination 6 times. By the last time, my chest pop-squat looks more like dance and less like I’m having a seizure.

As we’re leaving, Rissa says, “I HATE having to act while I dance. HATE it!”

“And I hate having to dance while I act,” I respond. “With my face and your movement? We make a perfect Broadway dancer!”

Rissa laughs at my jazz hands attempt. My right hand? Can Fosse the hell out of a jazz hand. My left? Can only do it if it’s at 1/8 speed. Rissa puts her arm around my waist. I do the same to her. Together, we do perfect jazz hands.