Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Dance Dance Revolution
"Life is about moving." - Twyla Tharp, choreographer and author of The Creative Habit.
Well, Twyla, you might be moving. You're a choreographer. I'm a writer. I sit in this chair at my desk, waiting at the old ice hole for fish.
[Sitting will kill you even if you exercise.]
Sitting is what I increasingly do. The fish are few. I've made up my mind to dance more.
I'm may no longer be capable of "Salsa Arm Styling," a class I enthusiastically took in Boston in my 20s, along with "Afro-Cuban" at The Dance Complex.
My salsa arms: batwings. My salsa shoes from Teddy shoes: they're covered with, as Dylan Thomas would say, "a pure and grandfather" dust.
But I put them on anyway, as a little girl might play dress up. I T-boned the mirror. It was 10 AM.
I used to go out at 10 PM, is what I thought, but that was a different clock face, youth, and not a useful thought, and I've decided in my 40s to have only useful thoughts.
I put on Songs From A Little Blue House, raised my hands and began. The effect was dance dance revolution. On a spin, I felt my dew-lapped cheeks lag ever so slightly behind me, my middle age following me like a loyal old dog.
But that's okay, it's great even, it's better than stillness; all the people that I have been so far were moving.