Last Dance, Last Chance

When I was in high school the local churches in my neighborhood would occasionally sponsor a dance for the local teens.

We looked forward to it for weeks, debated what we would wear, listened to the local pop stations (‘I listen to the new sound of 13Q!’) for the latest songs.

It didn’t matter if the church was Presbyterian, United Methodist, or Nazarene- when the music started the lights were turned way, way down.

Suddenly, things got real.

The milling kids turned into boys and girls. Male and female. Line dances were in back then, too. We didn’t boot scoot, electric slide or wobble: we did the Hustle. There was no voguing, but we did strike many a pose.

In between dances, usually solo, we slurped down punch, made group trips to the restroom, and asked the DJ to play our favorite songs.

By the time "Stairway to Heaven" ended (the unofficial song that signaled the evening was ENDING, people!) Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” started, if you hadn’t slow-danced yet, this would be your last chance.

Do you ask a guy to dance with you?

Do you ask your guy-friends, or are they planning on asking a girl outside of your small group? (WHY didn’t you all plan this out better?!)

One of the guys you don’t know very well seems like he’s working his way over to you. (Quick! Palm to mouth and puff for a quick breath-check!)

Maybe he’s looking for some else? (No! He’s looking at ME! Roll on some Cherry Smash Maybelline Kissing Potion lip gloss. SMILE.)

He holds out his hand, and before you take it you slide your hand across the side of your skirt, making sure it is dry.

Of course, it isn’t. Neither is his.

Because this matters.

It’s important.

All sense are on high alert, every cell is alive, your heart is pumping, your blood is singing in your ears, your breath is shallow, your eyes are wide open.

You are sure you will remember every second of the dance. You need to record it in your diary. Tell your friend what he said (nothing). What he did (sway from side to side). How he smelled (Brut).

In that stuffy air of those church basements we hoped the night would never end. (WHY was the song so short?)

His hand on the small of your back was hot, your hand on his shoulder was going to leave a damp spot on his poly-Qiana blend shirt (silk-screened with a stallion, or sunset, or eagle) you couldn’t tell who was making your clasped hands sweat, but you didn’t want to let go until the song ended.

Because this matters.

It’s important.

I knew it would be the same, dance after dance. The setting up to make sure everything was just-so. The self-conscious dancing with a group, watching the cool-kids’ moves. The anxiety about what to do if I was asked to slow-dance, the panic at the thought of what I would do if I wasn’t.

I never thought about not going, though.

The sweat didn’t bother me. Because it mattered. It was important.

Now?

Now I shrink back with true distaste from sweaty experiences.

I even prefer to change at work and not in the locker room at the gym, because the locker room is attached to the pool, and the pool to the showers and that makes the locker room too humid, and I sweat.

I don’t want to be too sweaty before I work out. I must be nuts.

What I need is to see myself in my mind’s eye as fit and healthy, the same way I saw myself dancing in the arms of those cute, nervous boys.

I need to remain fixed on the reward of toned and happy, living a longer healthier life, the way I used to think of reliving the dance through conversations with my girlfriends.

I need to stop avoiding the sweat. It is time to sweat the small stuff now so I will be around for the big stuff later.

Because this matters.

It’s important.

~~

I am not yet what I want to be, but i am not now what I once was. Clearly more disciplined exercise is needed.

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