Tights, Tutus, and... Gray Hairs?

A distant echo of squeals greets me as I open the front door. My heart leaps from my chest into my throat. I hesitate for a moment before starting my climb up the seemingly neverending flight of stairs.

"It's excitement, not fear," I tell myself.

As I round the corner, a gaggle of tiny dancers pours out of the studio: their hair bound tight in buns.

They notice my arrival and size me up with a sideways glance as if wondering, "Whose mom are you?"

I ignore their obvious confusion and sit down amidst the puddles of shoes and coats. Quietly removing my shoes and socks, I curse that part of me that's excited about something obviously not made for me.

I recite a silent reminder, "They said this was an all-ages class." But that negative voice creeps into my brain. It whispers, "Maybe this is 'all-ages' the same way that fancy anniversary brunch was 'all-you-can-drink mimosas'. Remember, it was all-you-can-drink... until you drank 3 mimosas in one sitting and tried to get the 4th one. Then your waitress was suddenly nowhere to be found..."

The critical voice continues as it lures me to bolt for the door and never return, "Maybe this modern dance class was advertised as 'all-ages,' but the fine print read: all-ages unless you are approaching the age of wrinkles and gray hair."

Too bad, I say to the negative Nancy living inside my head. I already purchased the class card. I gave the studio my money, thus solidifying my decision. I am going to class. There is no slinking away now.

I keep my head down and let the dance studio clear out. The eager light that burned inside me when I found the class online is back. I had been dumbfounded to discover this dance studio in my new-to-me small town. And I was not about to let societal norms about my age stop me from participating. My original intention was simple: keep a low profile. Fly under the radar. Quietly enter the studio, slip to the back of the class and get my fill of dance without being noticed.

But this isn't LA. This is a tiny town in the big state of Alaska. And I am definitely noticed.

"Oh, hello, you must be..." says the teacher, searching her memory banks for how she knows me and obviously coming up short. I introduce myself. She doesn't show obvious signs of shock. I quietly surmise she must have acting on her resume as well as dancing. What else could explain her apparent indifference to the fact that I am definitely her age... or older?

The other girls file in. I say girls because, well, they are. I realize I'm at least 3 times older than most of them. The oldest one in the group might be getting ready for prom next spring. I went to prom 20 years ago.

"Calm down. Age is just a number," I whisper internally.

Class begins. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Now the talking is over. I can again fall under the spell of a dance class: where time stills as my mind, body, and senses meld with the music. If I can follow along, that is...

25 minutes later, I'm dripping with sweat, practically gasping for air. My classmates appear to be breathing normally and have smiles plastered on their faces. They gracefully "chasse" and "plie" across the floor. My head tries to wrap around which foot goes where; and when. I start to see why age isn't just a number. But I kick that thought to the back of my mind with my next leap across the floor. Or, at least, my attempt at a leap.

Class ends. I am still in one piece. A quick body scan assures me that I don't have any broken bones or immediate signs of muscle sprains. I consider that a success. Now, I bolt for the door with a quick, "Thank you, see you next week." I'm not about to hang around and answer questions from the mothers who have arrived in time to pick up their daughters (the same ones who just schooled me in that class).

Crawling into bed that night, I feel joys I haven't felt since taking my last studio dance class years ago; the joy of learning and executing new movements as well as the challenge of communicating between body and brain as I digest the teacher's instruction. These joys are, of course, tucked alongside the knowledge that I will wake up to stiff muscles and a sore back. But it will all be worth it.

And it is. I keep at it. I've danced before and know that, like anything in life, patience and perseverance are the keys to growth.

Each week I arrive five minutes before class. I remain quiet. Nobody seems curious about me anymore. They're used to me now: a middle-aged lady with no kids who strangely still comes to dance classes. I try to block out those judgments that may swirl in their brains. It all comes down to one truth that sustains my weekly return. Although I appreciate the beautiful synergy when people dance and magically unify together in the rhythm, I don't come to class for friends.

The truth is, I dance for myself.

Dance is my passion. It's always been the vehicle through which I feel the most alive and expressive. I experience immense joy while I am dancing.

Most importantly, dancing brings me into alignment with who I authentically am.

And I am not about to let age stop me from doing what I love. It doesn't matter that I didn't grow up as a studio kid. It doesn't matter that the first time I put on ballet slippers was in my senior year of college. And it doesn't matter that I've been out of college for over 15 years.

I could have continued dancing by myself in my apartment. But I did that all the time. Instead, I challenged myself to venture to an unknown place with unknown people: a tiny dance studio, in a small town, in a state where the total population is less than the city of Los Angeles, all because...

I love to dance.

And because, contrary to the ridiculous narrative swirling around some U.S. towns, dance shouldn't end when gray hairs arrive. It should not be limited to those with youthful skin and superior flexibility. And it most certainly should be not limited to young people taking dance classes in hopes of a future career.

Forget that nonsense. As long as I can move in this human body, I will dance.

Each weekly journey to that modern dance class, I held the same attitude: I am here because I love to dance. And if a middle-aged lady dancing alongside kids who couldn't even drive themselves to that class wasn't what the studio owners envisioned, well, I don't know what to say.

I guess they shouldn't have put "all ages" on their class description.