Fifth Date

When I checked my email Friday morning and discovered our fifth date would be salsa dancing, I forgot about my oatmeal cooking on the stove and hit reply. “Dear David: have you ever seen a baby bopping around in a diaper?” But instead of  clicking send, I picked up the phone and called my mother.

“Oh, no!” Bernice gasped. “Dancing?”

“Yes,” I said, grimly.

“Maybe you should be honest,” she  said. “Maybe suggest another activity.”

Then the smoke alarm went off.

My freshman year of high school I was in Annie. I had one line* and a dance tutor. If the tutor didn’t work – they were going to have to cut me from some of the dance numbers.

“You’re just not getting it,”  Mr. F. said. “We don’t know what else to do.” Jan the choreographer had volunteered to work with me. “Jan has a special needs background,” he told me. “You’re in good hands.”

Jan had me meet her in the auditorium before homeroom. I came in sweatpants rolled up to my knees like in FAME. I was ready to work.

“Rachel, pay attention,” Jan said, exasperated. “You’re not watching me.”

The routine was a cross between a polish folk dance and the running man. I hadn’t mastered the YMCA.

“I’m watching,” I said, “I really, really am.”

“Eyes on my feet,” she said. “You need to at least try.”

Jan quit after two sessions.

But Annie was a cakewalk compared to the kids production of Chorus Line.

After the first day of tryouts, Tammy the director, called me at home. Tammy was a meatball of a woman with straws of penny-blond hair and a wardrobe that consisted of floral leggings and scrunchy socks. She took the show very seriously. At any minute we could go to Broadway.

“You know Chorus Line is a dancing show,” Tammy said. “Ballet, jazz, tap…”

“Yes,” I said. “I bought tap shoes.” I had been wearing them around the house just for fun.

“I’m concerned about this, Rach,” she said. “You were dancing to a completely different song than the rest of the cast today.”

I twisted the phone cord around my finger, slunk down in my chair.

“Do you want me to quit?” I asked, bursting into tears. “Because I can practice after school every single day. I got a boom-box and I have the Chorus Line soundtrack.”

Somewhere in a box exists a tape of me flailing around in my bright pink leotard, the chubbiest kid in the play. Tammy placed me strategically in the back row, practically behind the curtains for all the group numbers. She also had me wear a long-sleeve denim shirt as a cover-up.

“You’ll feel more comfortable with the top,” Tammy had said. “The other girls are so tiny! It’s hard. Isn’t it? It’s hard.”

It was hard and it is hard. But I have missed out on too much because I feel self-conscious about my body. About my lack of rhythm.  So on Friday I did something I haven’t done since I was 22-years-old: I danced sober with a boy.

David spun me around and a guy named Juan showed us how to move our hips. And I didn’t care if I was doing it wrong.I had fun.

If I looked silly – he didn’t say.

And tomorrow? we’ll have our seventh date.

Here I am outside Bembe telling these people they are great dancers

PS: this happened today… it was my Facebook status update

a dignified looking man just walked out of a hotel, lifted his leg and ripped a fart that made my dress blow up. it like stopped construction. then he chased after me screaming,”hey! miss! u farted!” I couldn’t tell if he was kidding.

*My line in Annie: “It’s a dead mouse!”

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