skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Life being the embarrassment that it is, I decided to take dance lessons and give the public a good laugh; these days, there are so few comical moments. I stopped dancing about 20 years ago as none of my boyfriends knew how, so instead we did guy stuff like action flicks, camping and washing his car. I recently discovered a girl can still go dancing without them! Just like in high school.
Forget the waltz; I look awful in a ball gown and, face it, Ginger Rogers I’m not. Tango looks too intimate to practice with some stranger breathing way too close. Yet I wanted excitement, fun, a challenge, a new me -- so I picked Zydeco. Oh, the music! The bands! The quasi-rock, quasi- roll, quasi- foot-stomping, fast and dirty boogying of Louisiana.
Glen Echo offers lots of dance classes. Sadly, at most Washington events, it's all women all the time. And even though that first night was a sad sight, seven men presented themselves! Shy, standing alone, nervous, sweaty palms - and that was just me - we actually had an even count. 
The teachers were lively and charming, urging us to form lines and follow a basic count. "And-a-one-and-a -two and a shuffle-shuffle, step." Oh dear. They lost me there.
Let's get back to 'foot-stomping' for a second. We rotated partners every few minutes, giving me the full panoply of sizes, shapes, and styles. Let me apologize right here and now to all the poor fellas who hobbled away from me, grimacing, brushing aside a few hidden tears. I like to think they were they just sad our turn was over.
By the end of the first lesson, we girls were in pretty good form. But the guys were still stomping around, no rhythm, bodies stiff, puzzled by the whole concept. Again, just like in high school except my father wasn’t waiting outside in the car. Oh well, there were still four more classes, and seven hopeful women rolling their eyes.
Dancing is strenuous exercise! Aching doesn't begin to describe my agony the next day; hernias were sprouting all over. Lesson two went better though; we picked up the pace and if one had any natural rhythm at all, it came out. A couple of the guys had obviously practiced and were able to employ simple 'leading' techniques to side-step my feet. But a couple of others still landed right on them. Notice how I project blame.
Our big break came at a real Zydeco dance a few days later, Dancing by the Bayou, and open to the general public. We newbies were encouraged to join in. They must be crazy! A brief lesson was offered first. Instead of 7 guys, there were about 25 attending the class. As I was handed off from one to the other, suddenly a small nervous man of incalculable age landed smack in front of me, wreaking of cologne so overpowering, I asked that we step a few feet apart. He calmly and logically reasoned "I sweat so much, I have to wear it to cover up my smell". As the song goes, “Know When To Hold ‘Em, Know When To Run!”
Then there were the really talented Zydeco regulars who hauled me onto the floor – not realizing they picked a rank beginner - where I was hurled, tossed, and lurched around the room, begging for relief, explaining I had only done this twice before. Forget it, they didn't hear me. Exactly a year after my rotator cuff surgery, one guy nearly ripped my shoulder bone from its socket. A small price to pay for basking in public humiliation.
And while I can certainly appreciate the appeal of public dances, one better recognize the hierarchy -- those who are experienced dancers and those who are wannabe's -- because it appears never the twain shall meet! If you're no good, you're wallpaper. So on that note, my dance lessons ended.
What's my next step, so to speak? Well, in response to television's hit show "So You Think You Can Dance!”, the answer is "Yes, I think I can!" Too bad no one else does. Tennis anyone?
"YOU are taking the bus to New York???" The looks from my friends were telling: Aghast. Agape. Appalled. Alarmed. And that's just the "A"'s. But at only $50 round trip, I accepted their loathing. I guess the trick is don't tell anyone.
But for heaven's sake, it's not as though it was Greyhound! It looks like a bus, acts like a bus, smells like a bus, but it was the classier Vamoose with departures from Rosslyn and Bethesda. I mean, the train costs five times that. Flying does too, plus you practically undress to go through security. And, besides, who doesn't want to save money these days?
So off I went (by cab, of course) to the depot, in culture shock amidst a full house of twentyand- thirty- somethings with bad haircuts. Hoping to fit in, I assessed how they lounged around waiting to board, looking zoned out from lack of sleep, every one on a 'yell' phone bellowing out their life’s stories, weighed down with backpacks, text books and pizza slices. No, not possible, not with my Fendi overnight bag, WSJ, and treats from Dean & DeLuca. I decided best to just be myself. To those who say "50's are the new 30's", I say "Get real!"
New York has its charms but the weather isn't among them; five hours later, the heat and humidity of New York streets scored 120 degrees. But this was The Big Apple, not Washington, so I should have expected one-upmanship.
I was headed to the annual Fancy Food Show to take in (literally) 2,000 specialty foods. Chocolate, olives, paté, cookies, crackers, cheeses, pastas, thirty kinds of olive oil, mustard, cheese sticks...well, you get the picture. "Balducci's on steroids." I tasted all of them and staggered out, thankful for my stretch waistband surrounding my newly stretched waist. Isn't technology wonderful?
In a further clash of environments, I stumbled upon Canal Street, where the odiferous environment spews forth splendid knock-offs of designer handbags, sunglasses, and watches. On every street corner, I was accosted by "Psst!" in various accents. "Wanna Louis Vuitton? Chanel? Follow."
So, never being one to turn down a potential new peril, I obediently
trailed one to a dark van on a side street. Motioned to climb
aboard, I was thinking this thing is going to take off and I'll end
up across some border, 
but was actually enveloped by floor to ceiling fake designer bags. I was indeed a captive audience,
dying to buy something without actually dying. Squirming and trying to figure out how to say No politely and safely, I finally called upon my best Schwarzenegger impression and swaggered out with "I'll be back."
A short time later, I did score a great replica Cartier watch for $30, thinking perhaps I would be redeemed by my friends after all. Not so. "You didn't buy one for me? I may not ride a bus but I'd certainly wear a good fake!"
The rags to riches adventure continued with an indigestible $2.00 street hot dog for lunch (their version of fancy food). Talk about dying of gustatory failure. But then, it's better than gagging on granola and overdosing on health food supplements like Californians. This was blissfully followed by drinks at the famous Sardi's, courtesy of a good friend who reminded me that I do have some standards and insisted I live up to them for at least one evening.
My accommodations outdid any $800/night hotel, including better coffee and no need to tip. At a friend's condo on the water at the Jersey City Marina, I could
practically reach out and caress the magnificent yachts. Who knew such calm and beauty is just fifteen minutes from Manhattan...Nirvana meets Gotham. To top it all off, a water taxi transported me back and forth, playing the two skylines against one another.
The return trip was a mere 4 hours with wafts of perfume emanating from my seat mate and broken air conditioning. I asked a young person to switch seats as I have allergies to scents, but he ungraciously declined. When I finally got home and went out on the balcony to breathe fresh air, I locked myself out. I calculated (on my new fake watch) how long one could last out there, what with geranium leaves for a late snack and a dainty chair and figured until the first imminent thunderstorm. While I sure appreciated my wide open views that are sadly missing in downtown NY, it felt kind of lonely after dodging the teeming masses all weekend. Finally, help arrived a few hours later. A word of advice: don't try this at home.
So if you too are asking "What's wrong with saving money in this recession?", swallow your pride, shlep to the bus depot, and get your caboose on the Vamoose. But hurry! The price goes up to $60 in August! And with all your newly found savings, there'll be enough left over to afford Balducci's!
