In January, my sister-in-law Nancy emailed me. “Want to do this?” she asked. “It’s fun.” She sent a link to a three-session dance class at the 92nd Street Y, taught by choreographer Larry Keigwin. Nancy had taken a three-week dance class with him the summer before. That same week, my dermatologist pointed at the wrinkles in my neck and offered to inject them with Botox to “freeze” them. That appointment was the first time anyone had pointed at my face and used the word “jowls.”
I hesitated before responding. The dance class was on the Upper East Side and would require a subway and bus, a long walk or an expensive Uber ride to get there. Also, it was scheduled for Wednesday afternoons. I had far too much to do on Wednesday afternoons to dance my way through them! But it was cold, dark January.
Nancy’s mother had just passed away, my father-in-law had entered hospice and I had recently turned 60. Motion is lotion, I reminded myself. Move so you don’t die. Also, you used to dream of becoming a dancer, remember?
Fine, I emailed back. I’ll do it. If nothing else, maybe the class would let me dance away from my dermatologist.
The morning of the first class, Nancy texted. “I hope you have leg warmers and a shirt that’s cut at the neck so it falls off one shoulder like Jennifer Beals.” I texted back: “I just need a minute to turn back time to the summer of 1979 and get them from my bunk.”
Allow me to share the dance fantasies I harbored as a child, fantasies which became exacerbated during summers at sleepaway camp when I knew professional dancers.
Every December for the last 57 years, my mother and I have seen New York City Ballet’s George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center. Occasionally, we see other dance performances, too — Swan Lake or Jewels or Alvin Ailey’s Revelations. But The Nutcracker is our go-to; every year, we plunk down our money and go. As the music swells and the Christmas tree grows, we both cry and could not be happier. I grew up fantasizing about dancing the lead roles of the Dewdrop or Sugar Plum Fairy, graceful in a tiara and toe shoes, legs long and sinewy in pale pink tights and matching tutu, arms expressive, hands fluttering, opening and closing like flower petals.
At camp, I knew girls who had attended the School of American Ballet. They were in the most advanced fifth-period dance class. They wore their hair pulled back into buns and had the most beautiful posture.
One went on to direct the documentary film Getting to the Nutcracker. Another joined the Feld Ballet. A third appeared in the films All That Jazz and A Chorus Line. I never advanced past “third period,” code for “clumsy teenage girls/still beginners, poor souls.”
Still, a girl can dream. In the lobby of the David H. Koch Theater, you can buy used toe shoes donated by NYC Ballet dancers. When I was a teenager, my mother bought me a pair, autographed in black pen by the leading prima ballerina at the time, Suzanne Farrell. Oh, the joy of cramming my feet into her shoes! They were at least one size too small, but no matter; I cranked up the music on my turntable and danced around the carpeted floor of my suburban New Jersey bedroom, pretending I was on stage, rising in relevé and pirouetting in a leotard that emphasized how long and lean my torso was (it wasn’t).
None of that happened. After college, I became a writer, and for the next 40 years, the only thing that danced was my fingers across the keyboard.
So, one cold Wednesday afternoon in January, Nancy and I made our way to the Y and climbed the stairs to the third floor and arrived at what looked like a dance studio — mirrors on the wall, wood floor, high ceilings. I gasped.
Here was my chance! The class was filled with eight middle-aged women and a young, cute guy. Our choreographer, Larry, was fit, funny and adorable. He told us that we were going to “make a dance” (aka the name of the class) and should accept the possibility that it might not be perfect.
We were instructed to stand around in a circle, say our names and add a gesture. People made sweeping gestures with their hands. Nancy did a rolly thing with her fists. I made a “namaste” prayer gesture because I had done yoga that morning and couldn’t think of anything else.