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.
