Nobody Puts Betsy in a Corner

There I sat, feeling like I was back in seventh grade gym class during our square dance unit, waiting to learn how to Do Si Do and Allemande Left!

I was in a brewery a couple of blocks away from my condo, and they were teaching swing dancing.

What if I was as awkward as I had been in my strange and weird 13-year old body, all flail and fail?

As I sat in my chair waiting for the lessons to begin, a woman sat down next to me. Her husband played trumpet in the swing band that would be offering the music for the night.

She showed me her feet. “I’m wearing flip flops. A sure signal I am not here to dance. But are you ready?”

“I’m a little nervous,” I admitted. “I’ve never been very good at following.”

“Me either. Close your eyes,” she suggested. “That way you can feel what your partner wants you to do next.”

Another woman offered, “Or you can pretend you’re a little drunk.”

I nodded, not sure if those suggestions made me more or less nervous.

The band played a few songs to warm up, and immediately, I was transported back to playing sax in my high school’s jazz band. We’d often host our own Swing Nights in the dim cafeteria, and my parents would often come. I’d usually take a break for at least one song and let my dad lead me out onto the dance floor.

He was an incredible dancer. Or I should say leader. He stood almost stock still while he pushed me this way and pulled me that.

I thrilled at how well he could move me around that floor. At the same time, I often wanted to growl as many a teenager does, Don’t tell me what to do, Dad—on the dance floor or in life!

If only he were still here to give me some wisdom now and then.

All of that came flooding back as I listened to the music swell in the brewery. Even though I was sitting down, my body started to move. I couldn’t help it.

A 20-something professional dancer wearing tight pants and soft shoes sashayed out into the middle of the floor and said into his headset, “Okay, time to begin! You get to decide if you are going to be a leader or a follower.”

I chose follower.

He lined us up—leaders on this side, followers on that. Then, he said, “As long as you know these basic moves, you’re dancing. It’s rock step, march, march, rock step, march march.”

We practiced on our own—rock step, march, march, rock step, march, march.

Next, he told the leaders to put out their hands like they were holding two beers.

We followers were to dip our hands into those cups. It sort of felt like my hands were bees, entering a flower.

“I’m Alex,” the man across from me said.

“Betsy.”

“Okay, let’s practice!” the professional commanded.

Rock step, march, march. Rock step, march, march.

“You’ve done this before,” Alex murmured, a look of deep concentration on his face.

“It’s been almost 40 years,” I smiled.

“Well, your body clearly remembers.”

And as we switched partners again and again, I could feel the truth of what Alex had said—my body did remember. Before long, all I could think was what Shakira knew all along—hips don’t lie.

It’s something I often say now when I’m teaching yoga.

Hips reveal if we are feeling tight and uncertain or rooted and radiant.

As the music blared, an old spark inside of me glowed bigger and bigger.

“Sorry!” kept popping out of mine and everybody’s mouths as we accidentally crunched toes or knocked an arm against a forehead when we dared to attempt a spin.

And then it was time. Time for the band to play and our bodies to cut loose.

The nerves twanged inside me again as I went to stand along the wall—like any good junior high girl did.

What if no one asks me to dance?

What if I look like a right fool out there in front of God and everyone?

One of the professional dancers sauntered up to me. He reminded me of Patrick Swayze’s character, Johnny Castle, in Dirty Dancing—young, cocky, ready to pull me onto the dance floor and see what these bodies of ours could do.

I started out as stiff as Baby who clearly flustered her molten partner in the movie, just as I was probably frustrating mine.

But before long? Oh. My. God.

I spun.

I twirled.

Dare I say I even gyrated?? Just like Baby did in Johnny’s arms.

At the end of the song, my gallant dipped me back as far as I could go, and it was the wildest heart opener I’ve ever done in my life. I couldn’t stop smiling.

“Well, that was amazing,” the woman murmured when I returned to my seat. “Even with your eyes wide open, it didn’t look like you had any trouble following.”

“He knew what he was doing,” I giggled as I fanned myself with my hand. “It was easy.”

Dawn. The woman’s name was Dawn.

As I walked home, I thought about what I’d learned. Not just rock step, march, march, but how important it is to find what moves you.

To dance—even if it’s just with your chin.

To shimmy wild and oh baby, to live free.