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.

Wine

I love wine.

From the sound of the cork extraction, to the look and feel of a well-poured glass. A colorful nose offering tasty reflection and celebration of the day poses the question: What’s not to like?  

Especially the way it makes me feel after 2 glasses.

For years, well-tended vineyards have contributed to my nightly ritual, a truth I don’t mind sharing with anyone—even the doctor who raises a skeptical eyebrow while assigning a multiplier effect to my reported drinking habits (thanks to all the underreporting liar-pants patients out there).

With nationals on the horizon, however, I’m determined to pursue any possible advantage my 46 year-old body can manage. After all, the competition includes women a decade younger than me. This is no time for slacking. 

In search of a little extra energy (and in addition to my usual exercise and healthy eating), I decided to dump the booze on training nights—five times a week. How hard could it be?

Apparently more difficult than a perfect lockstep.

At first I relished the discipline, fancying myself an athlete.

When that failed, I drew inspiration from celebrities who don’t drink at all—like Jennifer Lopez.

Except I’m no JLo.

Now it’s just sheer willpower (and occasional forgiveness for gulping down a dismal practice) that keeps me going.

But when all is said and done, I can’t deny a few simple facts: Abstinence has increased my endurance, steadied my balance, lightened my attitude, heightened my reflexes, improved my sleep, and left me with a euphoric sense of wellness.

This pisses me off.

As it turns out, the sacrament I’ve nurtured no longer serves me. My alteration must now be permanent. Unless I form an alliance with stupidity.

So, too, is the case with dance. By surrendering to teachers and coaches who continually chip away at bad form, terrible habits (and my pride), something beautiful and more fulfilling is emerging.

And while routine wine consumption is my latest ballroom casualty, this serendipitous sequence is nothing new. As I devour this sport, it always responds in kind, and then some.

With just two weeks till nationals, I’m counting down the days until I can offer a fitting tribute to the pursuit I adore:

A refreshing Sauvignon Blanc and a full-bodied Pinot Noir.

Seaweed

At the moment, I’m wearing an ancient bathrobe, bad bed hair, and smudges of yesterday’s eyeliner. A soup kitchen would admit me without question.

Just three weeks from now, however, I’ll be adorned in unspeakably expensive crystals, fringe and fabric, enough makeup to resemble a drag queen, hurricane-proof tresses, and bronzer so deep as to rival the Tan Mom.  

I’ll also be a nervous wreck.

In other words, it’s show time. The United States Dance Championships, or, as referenced by professional/amateur (pro-am) ballroom dance couples, “Nationals” are right around the corner.

After my 2^nd place finish last summer (each year’s winners must move up to the next level), the competition is mine to lose.

No pressure or anything.

For now, however, the luxury of time has my head floating with inspiration that once tortured my child: seaweed.  

When my son was 8, I forced him into a coastal junior lifeguard program. He hated it. And me.

Mostly, he hated the kelp beds.

So great were his resentments, after a two-year enlistment, Santa gifted him a reprieve. Mention junior guards to this day and he invokes the man in the big red suit (along with a strong dose of motherhood guilt).

To have spent the past few days inspired by seaweed would be improbable under normal circumstances. But nothing about the dancing I do is conventional. 

I’m 46 years old and, after a nasty bump on the head 3 years ago (read: concussion), I began competing with my ballroom dance teacher, Jeremy, in American Rhythm (Cha Cha, Rhumba, Swing, Bolero and Mambo).

This probably means I’m still concussed. 

Nevertheless, it takes a village, as they say, and the number of professionals I’ve collected to support my amateur craft is beginning to rival the size of an incorporated city.

  

One of them is Zak, my ballet teacher.

Actually, nothing I do passes for ballet, but intrepid Zak insists I’m making progress. To be clear, I’ve mastered pointing and flexing my feet. Moving cleanly from one foot to another is my next goal.

And understanding what she occasionally mutters to herself in French.

After seeing me perform Bolero at a recent competition, Zak assigned an improvisational exercise she uses with her peewee class. On the dancer’s bell curve, I’m a toddler in a tutu sans the promising trajectory.

My challenge? To stand with my feet rooted to the floor allowing my body to be impacted by imaginary waves. Sometimes only my knees could bend. Other times, my ribs and hips. Eventually, everything could flow freely to the music, except my feet.

I rather hated her for making me do this in a public place, so I closed my eyes. You know—to keep people from seeing me.

As the music concluded, she instructed me to try a crossover (a Bolero movement). Having already lost my pride, I went for it.

She gasped.

Not sure this was a good thing, I opened my eyes. In a rare moment, Zak wasn’t cocking her head from side to side trying to figure out what the hell I was doing. Instead, she gasped again.

And showed me her goose bumps.

Unable to admit it then, I sensed a twinge myself. Yielding like seaweed brought movement without beginning and end. I was abandoned. Dancing.

Still enchanted by what it felt like to be fluid aquatic plant life (as opposed to stagnant algae), I wonder whether my body memory will be able to integrate such quality in time.

That and a hundred other cold water-splashing basics Jeremy would like me to accomplish.

I’m a work in progress with three weeks to go (a comfortable cushion at the moment, but soon to be a colonic panic button). This can only mean one thing:

Time to make an appointment with the most important professional of all—my psychologist.