After twelve years of avoidance, broken up by one brief stint in a ballet class in college (which I only occasionally actually showed up for - truancy: it's followed me), Tracey succeeded in half-dragging me to a modern dance class at DanceWorks this past Monday. My. Ass. Hurts.
It's been hard week for this body. I grew up with a pretty firm desire to be a dancer. I loved it in elementary school, continued through middle school and into high school, and until I dropped out, was relatively sure it was a definite possibility if I only worked hard enough. Enter teenage hell, boredom, frustration with growing up in what I perceived to be a crushingly conservative town. Even if I stayed in dance, there is nowhere to do it in this town. This thinking eventually grew to become the all-encompassing focus of my mindset at the time. Even if (blank), there is nowhere to (blank) in this town. Obviously, this is what led me to leave Rockford. Even if leaving meant going headfirst - with blinders! - into a marriage whose strength I wasn't convinced of and whose fundamental weaknesses I was unwilling to accept. For the affects that my immaturity and recklessness wreaked on members of my family and close friends - not to mention, my former husband - I will always be sorry. But I'd also be lying if I said there isn't a part of me that knows that, in the end, we all ended up where we should be and that neither of us could have done it any other way. For that, I'm grateful.
Going back to that pre-Leaving Rockford state of mind, though - going back to who I was before any of that even started, back to the little girl who wanted to be a dancer - is hard at 28, and that is the kind of two-way mirror that is going to a dance class with Tracey. It seemed to me like some kind of attempt on my part to go back in time, to have one more chance to see dozens of bodies moving, and, amidst the bodies, to see my best friend in the entire world moving with me. At a time in my life when nothing and no one seemed certain, I was always aware of her constant friendship, her willingness to stay by my side, both figuratively and literally, even when I lost my balance, forgot a move, or threw my arms in the air and walked away laughing. Or crying.
Going to this class meant admitting I am no longer who I once was, and that I will never be who I once wanted to be. It meant admitting defeat. It meant getting down and dirty on the floor, stretching my hardened limbs, envying the younger, leaner, more flexible bodies around me, and somehow trying to manage my way to a conclusion that said, "It's okay."
I never took modern. Tracey seemed to have forgotten that, previous to the class. Did I mention this was an INTERMEDIATE class? Not for beginners? Yeah. Minor point there. Not only have I not stretched properly, exercised, done ballet-style warm-ups, etc., in over a decade, but NEWS FLASH! My body has aged. And gone through a pregnancy. And nicotine, and alcohol, and years of misuse and abuse.
"You'll see. You'll catch up just fine. Once you get into it, your body will just remember, and... I don't know. You'll see. You'll be fine."
Okaaay...
She was right. I was fine. Not graceful or anywhere near it, and I couldn't do the combinations, and my body didn't just fall into pose as my brain so willfully instructed it to, and I just plain didn't have the physical strength to do what was being asked of me. But I did it anyway. And when I couldn't do it, I laughed. And I loved it.
I'm not a dancer. I will never be a dancer. I often find it funny how in middle school, our dreams and goals were tied up in me being a dancer and she being a writer, and how we unintentionally swapped places somewhere between Chicago and the suburbs, somewhere between the meetings and silences that sprinkled a whole lotta salt on our friendship during that period.
I'm still not a writer.
I went to the bar after class that night (what better way to reward intense physical strain than with dehydrating ALCOHOL and CIGARETTES!) and told my friend/bartender, John,
"I think she was a bit optimistic about my abilities. Like, optimistic to the point of being flat out WRONG."
"Aw, that's probably not entirely true."
"Tracey has always been more optimistic than I deserve in terms of my capabilities, and if that weren't true, she wouldn't still be friends with my sorry ass. THANK GOD she is the way she is, or I wouldn't have made it out of Rockford alive."
I spent the next day in recovery, followed by two days of intense gardening at County Clare and at home. Yesterday, I went running for the first time since... well, since the last time Trace and I went jogging, which would have been some time around 8th grade or freshman year. Fourteen years ago, give or take. I thought my lungs were going to spontaneously combust. I only made it halfway around the block before slowing to a walk. Twice. The third time, I pushed it to three-quarters around, but regretted it. Regret confirmed when I checked my "target heart rate" for exercise online and found I was exerting myself and my poor little ticker to about twice what it could handle: my target range is 96-114 beats per minute, and when I checked my heart rate after that last lap, I was at 144 bpm. Oops.
My. Ass. Hurts.
But my hubby-to-be-I-hope (maybe I'll substitute that phrase for the dumb "partner" word I'm so sick of until it annoys him to the point of doing something about it wink wink) loves it.
And I'm totally going back to that class and kicking its ass. In a few weeks. After a few beginning classes.
Intermediate modern, I will have your ass in a sling like you've had mine for the last week. And even if I fail, you will not be the last one laughing.
Posted by stephanie at June 9, 2006 12:43 PMYou da bestest.
Posted by: tracey at June 9, 2006 06:00 PM