Yesterday, I pulled out my dancing shoes (jazz) and went off for a Broadway jazz class… after decades.

Ouch, it almost hurts to write that word, “decades.”

Lemme tell ya, when you haven’t been in organized dance for a while, your body does not remember it well.

“What? You want me to do what?” sez Aging Body.

“Shut up and shimmy,” sez me.

“What’s with this plassé thing?” demands A.B.

Passé, not pLassé, you idiot. It gets you into position for a turn, or at least, that’s what teach said,” sez me.

“Owwww.” A.B. clearly has a ways to go.

Despite feeling like a loser – I was easily the youngest person there and completely out-danced by little old ladies who looked as if they’d be more at home with their knitting needles, WTF were they doing in a jazz class?! – I had a blast.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been in love with dance.

I was very shy as a child, not to mention felt ungainly (you try sprouting to 5’6″ when you’re 10 and then tell me how you feel), so the early ballet lessons didn’t go down too well.

But what I loved was jazz.

The sassy steps, the hollering hands, the whimsical walking …. everything about it.

As I grew older, I grew more confident about dancing anywhere… and everywhere.

Probably somewhat of an embarrassment to my long-suffering mother then and my long-suffering husband now, since I was (and still am) prone to breaking out the boogie whenever I hear a song that puts a lilt in step.

Remember “Ally McBeal”? That’s me. Seriously. I can’t help it. I think it’s genetic.

It’s such a part of me that the ring tone on my cell phone has been Dancing Queen ever since I got a cell phone.

The last several years, I haven’t danced much, except at the occasional holiday party. And I missed it.

So while I was on my staycation last week, I decided I was going to bring dance back into my life.

A regional ballet studio holds classes pretty close to me, and the schedule is doable.

The day Jill Foster and I met up for lunch and a movie during my staycation, I picked up some jazz shoes.

And so I dance again.

Doesn’t matter if it takes me a while to pick the steps back up (as Gini Dietrich reminded me yesterday, it’s nothing like riding a bike).

Doesn’t matter if I’m the most bumbling bumbler in the room; though put me on a disco floor and I will KILL it, and I am possibly one of the best Voguer you’ve ever seen.


Doesn’t matter if my Aging Body doesn’t look quite like it used to, or shimmy like it used to, or grapevine like it used to.

In time, it will.

It’s a good workout, it’s great for coordination, and it makes me feel good.

And when I feel good… well, you know the rest.

And one day, I will kick those little old ladies’ bootays in shimmying.

Because I dance again.