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.



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