Daily Excerpt: 57 Steps to Paradise (Patricia Lorenz) - Dancing Lessons
Excerpt from 57 Steps to Paradise by Patricia Lorenz--
I'd
been a single parent of four for five years and I worried about everything. About
whether the sump pump would conk out during a big rain and flood my family room
when I wasn't home. About wasp's nests in the overhang and broken tree limbs in
the gutter. About how I would put four kids through college, three at the same
time. About how I would ever find a nice man to date and how sad it would be to
grow old alone.
One
Saturday evening the phone rang. It was a nice man with a deep voice telling me
I'd won a free dance lesson.
"It's
fun, and you'll learn lots of different dance steps," he proclaimed
convincingly.
“It’s
really free?” I asked timidly.
“Absolutely!”
the man gushed in the key of G. “It’s just our way of introducing you to the
wonderful world of dancing.”
When
I hung up the phone, I could feel my face flush. What if I step on my instructor's toes and make a fool of myself?
At
class the following week, a woman dressed in a black chiffon skirt and red
spangled Wizard of Oz high-heeled
shoes glided toward me, followed by two 20-something young men. She reached for
my hand. "Hello, there! I'm Ms. West, one of the instructors. This is Mr.
Bates. And here's Mr. Ross. We only use last names here to keep it formal.
Ballroom dancing, you know, is very serious."
“Serious?” I gasped. These were not
serious people. With giant grins etched onto their faces and their happy feet
tip-tapping around the dance floor, they were bouncy, peppy,
light-on-their-feet little gremlins. Definitely not serious. This was happy
feet land.
"All
right," one of the instructors called out cheerily. "Everyone join
hands and make a big circle. We're going to do the 'push-pull.’ Pretend you're
squishing grapes. Right foot back, ladies, and squish! Now left foot forward
and squish! Pretend you're marching in a parade. Right foot forward, flat on
the floor, march! Left foot down, march! So, it's squish, squish, march,
march."
I
did it with the others. Squished my grapes, marched my parade. Squish, squish,
march, march. Over and over.
Then,
we had to do it with a partner. Mr. Ross, one of the most handsome of the
half-my-age instructors, rushed over to take my hand. I felt my heart beating
faster while Mr. Ross and I squish-squished and march-marched as I repeated the
words over and over to myself with each beat of the music.
But
then something awful happened. Mr. Ross started asking me questions—while we
were push-pulling!
"So,
how do you like dancing? And what do you do for a living?"
Two
questions, and here I was trying desperately to keep my squish-squish,
march-march in order. I could just feel what was about to happen. The minute I
opened my mouth to answer, my squishes and marches got crossed. The smile never
left his face when I stepped on his toes. "It's okay, Ms. Lorenz. We're
going to teach you to do all this automatically so you'll look good on the
dance floor. You'll learn the fox trot, waltz, rumba, jitterbug, mambo,
cha-cha…"
All that in forty minutes? I wondered as I glanced at the large wall clock.
"Are
you sure you've never had dance lessons before?" questioned the handsome
one. "You're so light on your feet!"
Squish-squish. 'No, never did." March-march.
"So,
what do you do?"
"I,"
squish-squish, "I'm a copywriter
for a radio" march-march "station."
Squish-squish "…write radio
commercials." March-march.
"What
do you do for fun? Are you married? Do you go dancing very often?"
All this from a man who refuses to
tell me his first name?
"Well, I don't do" squish-squish
"much dancing socially, not married," march-march, "haven't danced for years, kinda rusty." March-squish. "Whoops! Sorry about
that! By the way, my name's Pat."
Mr.
Ballerina didn't flinch.
Finally,
when the music ended, the instructors walked each guest, arm-in-arm to the
other side of the room. It was time to watch the professionals put on a
demonstration.
Poetry
in motion. Straight out of the thirties. Arms a flying. Legs reaching for the
sky. I could just see myself on the dance floor at my cousin's wedding, my heel
up on my prince's shoulder for that split second while he twirled me so fast my
full chiffon skirt would brush my cheek romantically before we ended our dance
with his strong hands on my hips as he lifted me high above his head in a
stunning spin finish. I was Ginger Rogers, and my partner was, ah, yes, Mr.
Perfect.
Suddenly,
Mr. Ross from the Happy Feet Gang, who looked like he hadn't yet had his fifth
high-school reunion, stood before me and reached for my hand as if it were a
paper-thin porcelain teacup. He carefully placed my hand upon his forearm as we
glided ever-so-lightly onto the dance floor.
We
squished, marched, waltzed, fox-trotted, and rumba'd. He kept asking me more
personal questions while I tried desperately to keep my unhappy feet responding
to his happy ones. I wondered if he were writing a book about my life.
After
twenty-five minutes of squish-squish, march-march, question-question, talk
about me but not about him, Mr. Ross ushered me into "The Room." I
knew the minute he closed the door and the four dark floral-print wall-papered
walls started to squeeze in on me that this was the place where they tried to
force you to sign on the dotted line—the dotted line just under the part that
said, "Ten one-hour lessons for $650, plus a $150 discount because you're
such a swell, happy, light-on-your-feet person."
Mr.
Ross started talking about my life, my social habits, my children, my lack of
exercise, my need for more friends, my cash flow, the trouble I had meeting
nice men, my career, my lonely Saturday nights, and my personal habits. He remembered
every word I’d said. He talked and smiled. He flattered me. He made taking
dancing lessons a synonym for turning my not-so-social life into a blaze of
filled dance cards and stand-in-line gentlemen callers.
After
reading a certificate on the wall over Mr. Ross's desk, I decided to change the
focus of his inquisition by asking him why he'd gotten his master's degree in
urban economics and was now a full-time dance instructor. As soon as the words
were out of my mouth, Mr. Happy got happier. Every sentence he sputtered ended
with an exclamation point.
"It's
fun! Life is supposed to be fun! Dancing is fun! It's great exercise! It's a
wonderful way to meet people! It's…" He went on for ten straight minutes,
and I started to hate urban economics.
At
last, he took a breath and touched my hand gently as he slid the contract under
my fingers. His eyes sparkled. I felt his happy feet tapping under the desk.
I
reached for the pen. On four lines of the contract, I wrote very slowly in
neat, happy letters: “No money. Ain't funny. Too bad. So sad.” Then,
I stood up, smiled a happy smile, grabbed my coat, and bounded up the
stairs toward the light.
A
week later, I called some old friends and invited them to join me for a night
on the town. After dinner we visited an old-fashioned ‘60s rock-and-roll club.
We rocked, we rolled, we boogied, and we did The Twist. We laughed until our
sides ached and danced until our legs gave out. We didn't do one squish-squish,
march-march all night.
What
I learned from Mr. Ross and the Happy Feet Gang is that it's up to me to make
my life fun. Whether I'm 40, 50, 60, 70, or 80, in order to have friends,
especially male friends, I must be a friend first. I have to make that first
phone call and get things organized even if it means, heaven forbid, taking
dancing lessons!
For more posts about Patricia and her book, click HERE.
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