Dancing with the Stars...or NOT!

What would possess a mother who still gets up at night with a new baby to stay up past midnight, wearing a dress and spelling out Y-M-C-A in front of a mirror?  The answer is really a confessional.  If there is ever a spotlight shining on a dance floor, I can guarantee you where I’ll be: NOT in it!  In fact, me, rhythm and "moves" are like oil and water: we just don’t mix.

I can paint.

I can write (well, you be the judge of that!).

I can calm a fussy baby.

But  (cringing to admit this)….I CAN’T DANCE!

I could blame it on my southern roots (I’m a Cajun girl!) where we are better at being still in heats hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk.  I could blame it on my color (if white men can’t jump, would it be safe to say this white woman can’t dance!?) or I could even blame it on being born with two left feet.

There’s a reason after I tried out for cheerleading in junior high one of the coaches patted me on the back with that smile (you know, the “ohhhh…hon…nice try” smile) and said, “You have great spirit, Tara!”  I bawled my eyes out when I got home in my mother’s lap and she assured me as she wiped away my tears, “You are good at OTHER things, honey!”

Things OTHER than dancing.  It was shortly after my dream of wearing a little red and white striped skirt and punching pom poms into the air died a miserable death that I finally came to terms with my fate: I will never take Broadway!  I will never flutter across the stage and bask in the oohhhs and ahhhss of the masses!  I CAN’T DANCE!

This well-known fact (known well by anyone that knows me well!) has nonetheless never prevented me from throwing my heart and spirit (that was something I DID nail at the tryouts!) into dancing in every function I’ve attended from the coast of Louisiana to the borders of Canada.  I’ve even enjoyed embarrassing myself with some salsa dancing moves back in the day when I hit up some clubs in the big city.

But tonight, while trying on dresses for some upcoming summer weddings, I knew it was time.  Time to put away my “more is more” dance move mentality (the more head wiggling and butt jiggling the better, right?!) and become a woman of grace and glam on the dance floor.  Thus, I sought out the best studio (my bedroom in front of the full length mirror), hired the most sought after instructor (my husband, the price was right) and picked the classiest wedding song (The YMCA) and got to work.  

We pivoted slowly, shifted smoothly, and moved arms gracefully in an attempt to transform my dance moves from super scary to elegant fairy.  Overall, I think it was just an excuse for my instructor to cop a feel.  But between hysterical laughter (mostly his when I whipped out my Top Five BEST Moves) and collapsing on the floor in defeat (and MORE laughter), I don’t think I came away as a woman of graceful dancing but we had a heckuva time and, in the end, that’s the best move we can make!