Lessons

In preparation for the Ohio Star Ball, my teacher texted a “Competitor’s Tip.”

Scores should not dictate a dancer’s reaction to the competitive experience. Instead, the goal is to gain experience on the floor, observe other dancers, and learn something new.

I’d heard variations of this recycled mantra before. Some coaches even go so far as to suggest these match-ups aren’t against anyone but ourselves.

Wonderful sentiment, but to the latter point, I say bullshit.

And game on.

Without a doubt, this sport requires considerable self-discipline and introspection. Some of my greatest life lessons come from dance. On the other hand, I love the contest, cherish a win, and hate to lose. Those Type A traits aren’t easily converted to a walk in personal growth.

Nonetheless, after recently placing 2^nd in Hollywood, I searched my soul for a lesson and came up with nothing.

Knowing time usually yields perspective; I tried again the next day.

Less than nothing.

It seems I’d OD’d on self-reflection and needed a more productive approach, like rearranging my cosmetics lab—a bulging suitcase of stage-ready experiments harvested at Sephora where I boast over 10,000 Beauty Insider points (aka: useless rewards for spending too much).

For the most part, my current collection of war paint gets the job done (though I’m always on the lookout for something better), but eyeliners claiming the perfect cat eye have left me considering a class action lawsuit.

Maybe their assertions work on the taut skin of a teenager, but I’m pushing 50. Applying a straight line on the wrinkly folds of an upper lid can only be compared to a toddler’s first attempt at drawing a maze.

On my last visit to Mecca (see above), I stalked the older 30ish looking salesperson. At least she was on her second pregnancy and appreciated the consequences of lost elasticity. She recommended Tarte EmphasEYES Waterproof Clay Liner, which I tested in Hollywood.

Call off the attorneys! Complete with a well-constructed two-sided brush, this slick gel is intense and easy to apply—even for a hypercompetitive battleaxe with nervous, shaking hands. (And me, too.)

So there it was—successful research and confirmation of my teacher’s encouragement. He’s absolutely right. There really is something new to learn at each competition. 

Ambivalence

The calendar said it was time. So did my hormones.

My 3-week break from dance and exercise felt like finally taking a full breath after an asthma attack. On the other hand, with menopausal years sneaking up on me, prolonged absence of physical activity tends to dive sharply against my wellbeing.

The tipping point?

My canine soul mate, Bentley, suddenly irritated the hell out of me just for drinking water.  

I wanted to put it off another week, but my teacher’s response to an ambivalent text pissed me off, so I got in the car and gunned it for Santa Cruz—home base of the Palomar Ballroom and Jeremy—the latest objects of my shifting contempt.

He greeted me as he always does—with a hug, a warm smile, and a persistent, yet patient agenda. Jeremy was clearly unaware which of my personalities showed up for lessons, and I must admit, I savored his innocence.

We started with a customary post-competition debrief and got to work. He had new choreography and another comp on the itinerary. There was no time to waste.

Or fight.

He wanted me to memorize counts. I wanted to stab him with my shoe. He pushed me to reach higher in bolero. I envisioned reaching a heavy, projectile object. He demonstrated new form. I formed a few S, D and F bombs and delivered those instead.

For nearly 3 hours, I lunged and parried, unknowingly absorbed in the fierce side of dance. When we finished, Jeremy was still smiling. I was worn out.

And purged.

Come to find out, Jeremy moonlights as an exorcist.

Back home, I hesitated at the threshold of my dance room for some time. After all, I’d not set foot in there since nationals, except to yell at my son to pick up the socks and trash he’d gradually moved in. For some reason, he invoked the teenager’s version of eminent domain—behaving like a vagrant in an abandoned warehouse.

Part of me wanted to reclaim my space, but I’d also grown accustomed to my unhealthy relationship between ambition and animosity. There was no point denying it any longer. The reason I started dancing in the first place was starving and I’d been burned out for months. Without the win, I feared I’d lost all desire.

But I had to try.

It was a slow start. Like reuniting with a lover after a fight, I was nervous. Tenuous. Skeptical.

My body creaked and wavered, awkwardly fighting what had been comfortable just weeks before. Yet in the effort to regain my balance, my mind lost track of time and all care of the product. I was engaged in the process and nothing more. Not the urgency to acquire new steps, nor the motivation to compete. It was simply the challenge to make movement workable, and sometimes beautiful.   

Progress.

By the time I staggered out of there, I was a sweaty, contented mess. You know, like the state following makeup sex. If only I smoked…

In the days since, trepidations still sneak in here and there. But for the most part, I’m back—happy to have parted with some of what restrained me in dance…and life.

I’m in the midst of a turning point with an uncertain outcome and even somewhat thankful for the setback (full gratitude will take a while), but if one thing can be said for age, it’s knowing nothing builds perspective and renewal like engaging loss.

For the record, Bentley’s back as well, dutifully standing guard while I practice. And sipping water like the regal Corgi he is.

Reloading

I shot a lot of rounds this weekend.

It was a thing of beauty.

Celebrating my mom’s 70^th birthday at a private party put on by Valley Defense Consulting (excellent!), I’m not exactly sure who had a more satisfying day.

Three teenaged grandsons whose surly expressions gave way to everlasting grins, or Grandma Gangsta (a loving nickname we assigned to our proper, gun-toting mother)? 

Or was it me—the risk-adverse hater of all weapons not belonging to law enforcement?

For every minute of our five-hour training, I was a nervous wreck. I mean seriously, who in their right mind would give a woman—jumpier than a hare with a crack habit—a gun? Especially in my recent state of mind.

It’s been nearly two weeks since the United States Dance Championships where I’d hoped to take 1^st this year after placing 2^nd in 2012. However, instead of returning with the title, I came home to mope, sleep, eat and spend my way through several retail establishments and spa treatments.  

Why?

Because for the first time ever, at any competition, I didn’t even make the finals.

I’d done everything possible to secure good placement: strong physical fitness, greater mental toughness, finely tuned routines, plenty of high-level coaching, and quality styling. I also believe I’d danced my best ever, rewarded in early rounds by finishing 1^st in all individual dances.

So how does a competitor fall from such a position of strength?

I have no idea.

Even so, Grandma Gangsta wants to know.

Her initial thought was perhaps I’d upset someone with my new blog. Knowing my writing style, I can’t say her worry was unfounded, but in this case it’s too early. I’ve not offended anyone yet.

So along with comfort food and shopping, I’ve obsessed about what went wrong. At least until yesterday when I discovered what it’s like to empty a magazine.

I shot my wad and still failed to hit my mark.

All the guesswork in the world about what 9 judges thought of my choreography, expressions, partner connections, foot placement, dress movement, or even my black hair crystals won’t change the fact that 6 other dancers managed to have more judges recall them than I did.

As I write, last week’s U.S. Open men’s final is replaying. Given all of Rafa Nadal’s setbacks, fans like me wondered whether we’d ever see this comeback. It’s thrilling to relive such moments. What we don’t see, however, is the private reaction after high-stakes losses.

Do the pro’s really get right back on the proverbial horse? Or is it possible that they, too, need a little time to be down?

My dance shoes haven’t touched my home practice space for weeks. Instead, my son is enjoying the sole use of what is usually his only on weekends—the convertible gaming room.

Today he asked to hang our Glock targets there—specifically on the wall covering my handwritten tips about each of my 5 dances. This makes me smile because of all the possible rationales, the one that makes the most sense is this: The words might be important details, but I spent too much time on my target when, at the range, the sights yield the hit.

Or in my case, the dancing.

I didn’t really master reloading my gun yesterday, and I’m also unclear how to fully restore myself after this unexpected defeat.

But one way or another, I’m beginning to figure it out.  

Stupidity

I don’t usually aspire to be stupid. My results are mixed.

Now, however, according to a favorite coach, Giacomo Steccaglia, my dancing ambitions require me to be momentarily mindless. Or as he says, "Get stupid."

Why? Because it’s the week before a competition.

Rather than perfect new material or address a nagging backlog of bad habits, it’s time to liberate the brain and let it all go. No major corrections or attention to flubs, I’m to stop chasing technique and perform for a pretend audience.

And I’m supposed to enjoy it.

So how am I doing?

The week got off to a good start. As a Type A hypercompetitive control freak, I set a daily practice schedule allowing ten minutes per dance. Within that timeframe, only three minutes would visit technique; the remaining 7 would be entirely devoted to vamping it up with the mirror, doorframe, and random accessories like potted plants. Not exactly the coach’s advice, but it was all the control I was willing to yield.

Then the heat list came out.

Like a lab rat at a cheese-dispenser, I wasted an ungodly amount of time hunched over my computer surveying the competition. After comparing my previous scores to theirs, I checked which judges are attending, who has marked me well in the past, and who hasn’t.

None of this information makes me dance any better, but that didn’t deter me from trying to predict the future. It also didn’t prevent my upper back from cramping (or keep me from repeatedly calling my teacher on his day off).

So off I went for a massage—another cluster of time I did not devote to dancing. A rubdown, I was sure, would eliminate the butterflies and all would be on target once again.

Unfortunately, my nerves were still shot which upset me even more. In order to sleep that night, I opted for a little self-medication, completely ignoring my “no wine while training” rule.

This made me dehydrated and wakeful.

Dragging myself from bed the next morning, a slow start seemed like a good idea. It began in a chair…at my computer.

And so goes my week.

With less time devoted to dancing, more energy focused on things I can do nothing about, and Nationals set to begin Monday, I can honestly tell Giacomo I’ve achieved full stupidity.

Not exactly his vision, but stupidity nonetheless.