When I was a teenager I loved to dance. Unfortunately, my small northern town in Canada didn’t provide a lot of opportunity to take dance classes. We had ice rinks. Everyone skated. So my ambitions of becoming a famous dancer were channeled into figure skating. I twirled and jumped for 8 years on the rink till I realized that my inflexible hamstrings would not bring me Olympic gold medals.
Confession: The realization didn’t depress me. I was quite relieved to be off the cold rink and hard ice. Landing on one’s derriere after a failed jump is painful. I welcomed my exit from the skating arena.
But I still wanted to dance. And dance I did! I was a Disco Diva. I grew up during the era of John Travolta, The BeeGees, KC& the Sunshine Band. The music had an easy beat, and I could dance my little heart out. And I had a boyfriend who was so tall and strong he could spin me over his head in dance competitions.
Confession: I think the only reason I put up with his addiction to body building was so I could be flung around like a rag doll on Saturday nights! I felt light and free when I danced with him.
Then we broke up. And life happened. I got married. To a Texan. He loves to dance, but he has a weird little extra beat in his hip. My career as a disco dancer ended. However, I did find solace in a new craze: JAZZERCISE!
Confession: I love to dance. Working out? Not so much. But dance and burn calories with a bunch of other former disco queens? Oh yeah! I totally could get into that.
I jazzercised for a few years, I had “jazz hands.” I was one of the better Jazzercise Queens on the gym floor. My years of figure skating and disco competitions had not be for naught. Then I had a baby. My dancing days were limited to twirling with my child, listening to Kidz Bop, and throwing parties with other parents and kids. Occasionally we’d pull the rug back and move the furniture just so the moms could dance to some music on the music channel, but I was out of practice.
Fast forward. Daughter is in dance, I’m a chauffeur, my glory days are over. I’m much to mature to be “dancing.” But that’s not true. I discovered a new way to let my inner disco queen out of her shell. I discovered Zumba!!!
I joined the local YMCA last November and began exercising. Again, I hate to exercise, but I really do love fitting into my clothes. Since I’m allergic to dieting, I thought I’d pump up my workout routine and burn more calories.
Confession: My workout routine consisted of walking from my office to the fridge door, forage for cheese, and then head back to the chair to write.
I entered my first class with a lot of other Zumba wannabes. And once again, for an hour a day, two times a week, I’m not a mother of a moody teenager who is trying to separate from me. I’m not the wife of a grumpy old man who likes to watch the science channel and read math books. I’m not the laundress, the cook, the chauffeur, the unpublished writer, or the household maid. Nope.
I’m sixteen again. And I’m a Dancing Queen.