M
ay is a special time in
my family. It’s when
I attended my niece’s
dance recital. She’s eleven and
takes jazz ballet classes. My
sister, Barbara, and I were rem-
iniscing about when her other
daughter took classes and she
mentioned that the classes for
the older groups had no age re-
striction. So I, teasingly, said that
Barbara and I should sign up.
“We tried that once already,” she
said. “Remember.”
(Flashback to 2006.)
“No really”, Barbara said. “The
class is going to be made up the
mothers of the girls in the other
classes.”
I had taken ballet as a child
and had done some jazz-ballet
as a teen. I had even tried belly
dancing in my thirties. So what
if I was in my late-ish forties. It
seemed like a good way to exer-
cise. Barbara and I decided to try
a hip-hop class.
We got to the community center
and, sure enough, the room was
filled with women in their mid to
late thirties representing a com-
plete demographic of shapes and
sizes. We were all barefoot in
sweatpants and old t-shirts.
relieved that she was studying
medicine. We sat on the floor
and stretched forward to touch
our toes. I was able to get to my
knees. The teacher, on the other
hand was able to attain a shape
reserved for dancers, yoga practi-
tioners and Barbie dolls. feel the stretch. I felt it fine just
standing there. My leg was actu-
ally screaming its feelings. And,
let me tell you something, I never
realized that my leg had such a
potty-mouth.
“Everyone jump up.” She sang.
I made a noise that I remember
my grandmother making as she
rose from her chair. “And over to
the bar.” I went to take my foot off the bar
and I couldn’t lift it. I was using
both hands to hold myself up and
couldn’t lean forward for fear
that I’d fall. “Barb,” I whispered.
She turned around. I remem-
bered that joke that said never
do anything that you would have
trouble explaining to the para-
medics. “Help me. I’m stuck.”
Now to Barbara’s credit. She
didn’t double over in laughter
and she helped me get my foot
down.
The ballet bar is about as high
as my hip. Demi-Pliers and my
knees creaked. Full Pliers and
I sounded like a bowl of ‘Rice
Crispies’. Then she wanted us to
put one leg on the bar. The room
was humming with disbelief. I
was able to do it as a child. How
hard could it be? I lifted my leg.
Not even close to the top of the
bar. But I was not going to be
beaten. I lifted my leg, caught
the cuff of my sweat pants and
hauled my leg on to the bar.
“Now lean forward and feel the
stretch,” She said cheerfully.
I didn’t need to lean forward to
“All right, ladies. Change legs.”
“Other leg,” called the teacher.
And I repeated the process. The
stretching was over and I was
ready for a shower.
“Okay, now let’s get started.”
Started? What did she mean –
started?
Then in came the teacher; fresh
from teaching two high-energy
dance classes. She was small and
lively. “She’s attending universi-
ty,” Barbara said. “I think she’s
studying medicine.”
She had everyone stretch left
then right; back and forth. And
that was when I began to feel
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