Out Dancing. Christine maneuvered her Lexus hybrid…
Tags: Dancing, Aging, Angst, Resilience, Young Vs Old

Christine maneuvered her Lexus hybrid out of a tight corner in the parking lot of the dance studio. In the time between her arrival at 6 pm and her departure at 9 pm the lot had filled up and she was having to take great pains to avoid the other SUVs and police responder vehicles of the Brighton Center police station that shared the lot.

She glanced down at her seat, pleased with the car’s sleek profile, leather upholstery, and the glances she got from passers-by. Still, she calmed herself, pay attention. Be smart about the squeeze. Don’t let’s crash on the first trip out, not the maiden voyage of my new car, she thought. She shifted carefully into rear drive while she waited for the mother of one of the studio’s whizz dancers to move. She was impatient. How long would this take?

As a distraction, she recalled the day’s events. Only that morning had she plunked down $25-grand — in cash — for a Lexus Hybrid RX.​ It had happened like fate, a cascade of pre-destined events: on her way to the gym, waving hello to her friend and neighbor car broker, casual conversation about a car auction, him finishing up with, “There are a few Lexus’ in the lineup,” he said. “Bargains, really. You can’t go wrong.” True to his word he returned later with a white Lexus, used, in great condition, 44,000 miles. On a whim she agreed to buy it. A “green” car. Her first. One that wouldn’t ruin the planet for succeeding generations and one that she wouldn’t fork over big bucks for fossil fuel to line the pockets of terrorists.

The sale had taken only a few minutes and included plate exchange so she was ready and mobile by noon. Now it was 9 pm. She was tired. Her body had been pounded in three hours of dance lessons — dance group followed by youth then adult open class. She was sore and proud. “Good class tonight,” she mumbled aloud, as if to convince herself.​ But wait. Along came her friend Carolyn, running down the alley, panting, in her usual rush. “Hold on, we’re all meeting at Havana at 10. Be there,” she said, in no uncertain terms. Not for the first time did Christine note her friend’s peremptory tone. Taking control of plans was Carolyn’s strong suit. Christine mulled it over. As she pulled out of the lot she turned to say, “Sure thing, hon. See you all later,” while thinking long and hard, her heart both rising and sinking, do I really want to do this?

Ahhh, the angst of clubs. Christine thought ahead to what was likely to happen. More ladies than gents, lots of standing around waiting to be asked, wondering if she should ask. Angel Naysayer appeared, hovering over her left shoulder, interrupting her thoughts, “Don’t go, it’s not for you. It’ll be another opportunity to outshine you, for your friends, don’t let them have it. They’re already too competitive.” Followed by Angel Optimist hovering on her right, “Well, if it’s not you out there, who’s it gonna be? Someone else, that’s who. Someone who can’t dance.” A moment passed then Optimist resumed, “Look. You don’t see any guys out there with second thoughts, do you. So. Go for it.”

It’s the way Christine has of over-thinking and second-guessing and reproaching herself. It’s the well-worn script she has adopted for these evenings out, her husband Marc at home, who thinks such late-night shenanigans unseemly for a lady of her age, “Believe in yourself! Consider all those lessons you’re taking…Imagine the next one up, just think for an instant about that one…Making an even greater fool of herself…” And so forth. Most nights, as it does tonight, the script ends with, “It wouldn’t be so bad but they’re all so young! And so short! And working it so hard!”

And the clincher, “So few men!”​

Forty-five minutes later, after a quick cat wash with baby wipes to muck off the sweat in lieu of shower because she can’t spare the time, hair is reasonably brushed, as good as it can be for the 5th day post-wash (will have to do), lip-stick, no other makeup because screw it, she just doesn’t want to bother. Out of the closet she pulls a black dress, one of those black numbers that the over-60 crowd wears and that she, too wears now. It, too, will have to do. Finishing dressing, with a look in the medicine cabinet mirror that reflects the wall-mounted make-up mirror that reflects the full-length mirror on the back of the door (is this really me?) the angst returns and it’s almost enough to keep her home. “Whatever,” she says to the one-thousand Christines gazing back at her, “It’s dancing. Clubs, whatever. Way beyond my comfort zone. HATE going alone. Screw it. I’ve got friends and we’ll have some fun together.”

She’s on her way out dancing.

She has pushed to the back of her mind the dread of being the one that nobody asks to dance. The one standing around stupidly, trying to think of cute things to say above the noise, putting a good face on it. A face that doesn’t repulse, that no one would mistake for the screaming “Old Lady Seeks Young Buck” headline. A face that calls out the pure fun of dancing. A pleasant not-unduly-interested face that seeks the dance partner not the date. Of all the thoughts pulling at her at a feverish pace, this one, the cougar, it’s the worst fear she has. She’s again tempted to turn around for home, in no end of the confusion of mental obstacles she must combat each time dance club comes up.

Nowadays, ladies can ask, she knows this. But it’s such a giant role-reversal from back in the day. She is old-school. She’s not at that place where she feels comfortable to ask a man to dance. Most often she is relieved not to face the world out there. But it is also true that each time she declines she berates herself for being a loser and missing out. It’s somewhat of a parallel of her life, this missing out on dance that mimics her missing out on a lot of things. There’s a term for it, she has learned, FOMO. She applies the term to her life examples: not stepping up to career opportunities but wishing she had. Shrinking back from volunteering an answer to a question in public which would have shined a light on her competence. Like sex, let’s be honest. All those times when she and Marc were young, when she couldn’t relax, couldn’t stop overthinking it to death, couldn’t open up to love-making on the off-chance it might lead to pleasure, couldn’t tell herself she had every right to expect it. Those times have passed her by. FOMO, indeed.

Christine is a pessimist thinker. She’s her own worst enemy. Nothing ever works. She recalls a recent confrontation with her sister who, seeing her struggle with blisters from a new pair of dance shoes, pointed out, “It’s a simple thing, really. Just tighten them so they fit. Or return them. So easy. Can’t you make things easy for yourself?” And in fact, when Christine bought the shoes in the first place, fancy strappy heels, she had planned to make new holes in the straps, but didn’t. It would have solved the problem so quickly. No fuss. In her younger years she took matters into her own hands. A bold move! Fix the straps! There were so many creative ways. But now, her pessimism is well-entrenched. So ingrained is Christine’s karma — that every action has a predictable reaction, the sum of which adds up to a fate you can’t change — that she has acquired a surly affect, she is apathetic and blasé, she can walk in sandals that flop and pass off the pain as an artifact of her downer philosophy. Why bother, if it’s not the feet it’s something else.

Except here. Out dancing. Here. It’s a case where the solution really does work. What she fears on the dance floor rarely happens. She enjoys herself.​

She had embarked on the dance adventure out of a need to re-invent herself. She needed an update and didn’t know where to look for it. Some of her ideas were far-fetched but in dancing she found something she really likes. Something she always wanted to do since she was a girl and now has time for. She is diligent, has learned a lot. Is able to execute quite a few moves in Latin and ballroom standard — moves with far-fetched names like Sliding Doors, the Fan, Turkish Towel — and is proud of having accomplished the (rather) low bar she had set for herself, to learn a few dances. That goal was six years ago, when, returning from a 60th-birthday vacation in the Dominican Republic where each evening on the pool deck the staff gave beginner merengue lessons to ageing American tourists, she had an inspiration. An instantaneous desire to learn how to dance. Six years ago! She kept her eyes open. One day a groupon for dance lessons popped up on her computer screen. She bought a 12-dance card. She talked it up with her friends and got a group together. They began slowly, group lessons. Some bailed out quickly, some stuck with it for fun, some learned so fast and became so good they progressed to dance competitions. It was a revelation.​

This, now, was the current problem. It was a matter of pride to tag along with them, her cohort, her dance posse, who were fast out-dancing her. She could not let that happen as this was her own idea. In a lifetime of so few lucky strikes here was the perfect storm of a good idea — it fit, it worked, it didn’t require many logistics (just well-fitting shoes!) — and she wasn’t going to let it get away. So, gradually she increased her lessons and signed up for privates and took herself out of retirement to get a part-time job to pay for it. Retirement! The thing she longed for, and now found herself back in the grind. She resented the job even though it was the barest of part-time affairs at 10 hours per week. She even entered competitions and won 10 ribbons, all firsts and seconds, realizing later when looking up the competitors in her group that she was competing against probably no more than two and possibly just one competitor (herself). The prizes were quite meaningless. It wasn’t for the prizes, after all.

​ Tonight, it would be different. First of all, she has the best excuse in the world to be out for there’s conflict at home. Second, it’s been too long since the previous time. Third, old lady cougar be damned she will find some way to get onto the dance floor.​

Christine arrives at 10 pm, setting herself another low bar, to dance just one out of every three, that’s all. If I can manage that I’m fine with it, she thinks. Scanning the room, she notices that the rookies, the ones with more enthusiasm than grace, occupy the far end while a tightly-knit crowd of dancers who seem to know each other occupy the area near the stage at the top of the room. These are the pros and experts, as she learns from her dance instructor, Vika, whom she met upon arriving. “I know them all from coming here every week for two years,” Vika tells her. “The newer dancers, they’re the ones in the back.”

“You know, I think I’ll have a better opportunity of dancing if I circle around over there to the back,” Christine gestures with her arm. Vika turns to her to say, “Of course. Have fun.”​

No matter their level, the rookies are game and she is game. The first one to ask her to dance apologizes for being so sweaty. “Don’t pay it any mind,” she tells him, being positive, although he is pretty gross. He is fast. Her arms flail a bit like windmills, down and off-center when they should be up and sharp, but no matter. The next one, she could tell he’s a player; a short guy, he dances very close and suggestively, grinding hips and thighs up and down. She does her best to hang on. A young man, a very weak lead, slight of build and at least 40 years younger, leads her this way and that, left and right, without leading the spin she suspects is in his repertoire somewhere; finally he tries it and she’s ready for it and they finish the dance, both of them on the beat, in the movement, feeling that it went well. At the end he says, “That was beautiful!” in a breathless air as if to congratulate himself that the old lady didn’t eat him up. He has a giant grin and the two of them stand around for an awkward moment surprised how much they had enjoyed themselves. Most of the awkward disappears.​

It doesn’t last long before she is invited again and the next set is underway. More invites follow. She invites, too. The evening progresses from there. She dances not every dance but a good proportion, meeting her goal of 1 of 3, then quits the club after an hour and a half. She has waited only long enough to catch her breath in between dances. She quits just as the couples begin to define themselves, dancing as steady units, those who don’t want to change partners or mix it up. Time to go. The pace of invites has slowed. The only ones left are those who will close the club. By midnight she congratulates herself on an evening well-spent. She has had a very good time. She says good-bye to her friends whom she has not had to rely upon for the entire evening, walks to her car, and drives home. All in all, a gold star day.