Most people don’t believe me when I disclose my love for dancing. I stand too straight, and my smile is too wry
I
was wearing a white shell
for the first time in years. I don’t wear white shells, consider them nerdy. But my instructions tonight were to wear one as the base of my uniform. I was also wearing a black flared skirt and sneakers. I had dug my sneakers out of a corner cubbyhole in my closet; I can’t remember the last time I wore them.
But that night I was planning on doing something I haven’t done in a few years — dancing. Not shuffling around in a circle, stepping demurely in and out, friend-of-the-kallah’s mother type dancing, but real dancing, with energy and sweat. I was in an anxious, excited mood, curious how it would go down.
Let me explain. I’ve come to the point in my life where I’ve thankfully recognized how normal I am. That basically all my anxieties and hang-ups are shared by way too many other people, we just don’t go around broadcasting them because of the little (or in my case) big bushah we have.
Think of the last wedding you went to. Who was doing the dancing? The real dancing, the fun dancing, that you wanted to join — or at least watch. Probably not you (if it was you, you’re an enviable anomaly). The dancing is done by the kallah and her friends (and even among them, there are clear distinctions in the level and intensity of dancing), occasionally the odd aunt or friend of the mother who dances like she’s 20, inspiring awe or cringes, depending on her skill level. Which is unfortunate. Dancing has become part of the youthful domain. It’s boisterous and lively and utterly lacking in sophistication.
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