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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.
Larry said that if all went well, we might perform one Saturday afternoon in February. I felt both a thrill and a surge of anxiety. My father-in-law was ailing; what if I missed rehearsal?
Larry divided us into groups and told us to come up with routines based on literal routines. Our group acted out brushing our teeth, washing our armpits, shampooing our hair and soaping our nether parts, all while Larry played Ella Fitzgerald’s “Smooth Sailing” and Nu’s “Man O To.” He showed us dance moves and started each sequence with “from the top.” He taught us to “freeze” (how it sounds), demonstrated a cannon (a move that involves one or more dancers performing the same movement at staggered intervals) and had us “mirror” each other and mime, writing our names in the air. “Go write your name, big!” Larry commanded. “Write your name bigger! Write your name small!”
“Everybody freeze!” Larry had an assistant named Andrea, and together they had us dancing, sweating and moving around that dance hall almost nonstop for 90 minutes. Sometimes Larry would call out, “a 5, 6, 7, 8!” like we were in A Chorus Line. My sister-in-law did it all with skill and grace. I bumbled along. It was the most fun I’d had in weeks, maybe ever.
The night after our first class, Nancy and I went to see a free performance of Many Happy Returns, a “memory play” that is also a dance. During the play, a man narrates the story of a middle-aged woman who tries to piece together why she is no longer close to three friends from her youth. (Monica Bill Barnes danced and choreographed the play, Robbie Saenz de Viteri narrated and wrote it.) Near the end, Saenz de Viteri says, “It might be a good idea to move. There’s a chance I think that talking doesn’t actually make all of us feel better.” Amen to that.
Between the first and third classes, my father-in-law passed away. When I returned for the third and final class, the other “dancers” gathered around and offered their condolences.
Six weeks after dance class ended, my husband and I visited my mother-in-law. After coffee one morning, I headed downstairs to the exercise room, which was empty. The walls had floor-to-ceiling mirrors and the floor was wood.
Suddenly, it occurred to me: This was a dance studio and I was alone! I inserted my AirPods, clicked on Madonna’s “Vogue,” and started clapping and dancing in front of the mirror, trying out moves from Larry’s class. I was as high as you could be while sober. Two days later, the NYCB sent an email, offering a beginner’s class with principal dancer Indiana Woodward in the same studios where the company rehearses, three blocks from my apartment. Meanwhile, my sister-in-law arranged for Larry Keigwin to teach another series of dance classes near me in Montclair, NJ. I said yes to it all.
The night of Woodward’s class, I made my way to the studio across the street from Lincoln Center. It was filled with women of all ages, two men, one dashing piano accompanist and a dog. Everyone but the dog was dressed in leotards, tights, leg warmers or yoga pants. Woodward was beautiful and soft-spoken. She stood in the middle of the class, held the barre and gently guided us through pliés and tendus, reminding us to keep our pinkies up. She used phrases I hadn’t heard in 45 years — first position, fifth position, relevé. I kept smiling at the women to my left and right. We were all giddy. To say that this was a childhood dream come true is an understatement. We were ecstatic. After class, I got lost trying to find the exit and ended up alone in the elevator with Woodward. I thanked her for the class and tried not to gush, but I could barely contain my excitement. As we exited the elevator, I watched her walk toward Lincoln Center. My heart soared. Can you dance your way out of a depressing winter? Yes, you can.
Meanwhile, I came up with a playlist and have been dancing around my apartment. Larry, are you listening?
“Vogue,” Madonna
“Cupid Shuffle,” Cupid
“Smooth Sailing,” Ella Fitzgerald (feat. The Ray Charles Singers)
“Man O To,” Nu
“Ain’t Nobody,” Chaka Khan
“Beautiful,” Snoop Dogg and Pharrell Williams
“Let’s Groove,” Earth, Wind & Fire
“Sunday Candy,” Nico Segal
“The Way You Move,” OutKast and Sleepy Brown
“Dance the Night,” Dua Lipa
“Feel It Still,” Portugal. The Man
“Best of My Love,” The Emotions
“Shake It Off,” Taylor Swift
“Get Down on It,” Kool & the Gang
“YA YA,” Beyoncé
“Freedom! ’90,” George Michael
“Sexual Healing,” Marvin Gaye
“September,” Earth, Wind & Fire
Have any of you ever taken a dance class? What kind was it? Let us know in the comments below.
Vivian Shih
Follow Article Topics: Fitness