Who knew counting to eight could be so hard?

Post three of a thirteen-part series exploring Ruth’s makeover from dorky writer to disco diva

Dance class has quickly become my favourite hour of the week. My nerves are almost gone, although I’m studiously ignoring all thoughts of performing on stage. I start to hyperventilate every time I think about it, so I’m going with denial for at least a few more weeks. We will learn two dances in the next nine weeks and, apparently, we’ll be good enough to perform on stage. In costume. This doesn’t seem possible, but I’m putting blind faith in the process, (and our teacher), and trying not to think about it.

I experienced my first ‘Dirty Dancing’ moment (sans Patrick Swayze, unfortunately). You know the scene when Baby is loving herself sick and practicing on the steps?

That was me on the way to Woolies before school pick up on Wednesday. Running through the chorey in my head, counting the beats, shimmying my shoulders as I raced to buy wraps for dinner. Hilarious.

We were missing a couple of dancers this week due to kids / work / life stuff. I can’t go to next week’s class because my girls have a prior commitment. This is one of the things I was worried about before signing up. I tend to be an ‘all or nothing’ kind of gal, and I detest letting people down, so the thought of missing a class really worried me. Turns out it’s not so bad. We ran through last week’s steps, worked on the new choreography and filmed the routine. It’s shared each week on our private facebook page so we can catch up relatively easily and feel as confident as possible.

Everyone seemed to be a bit more relaxed and comfortable. I’m not as worried about making a twit out of myself, but I am cross when I stuff up. The actual steps are not that hard – I see my kids dance all the time and these are baby steps compared to the stuff they do. I find this super frustrating; as an adult, I think I should either KNOW how to do things or I should be able to pick them up quickly. I’ve spent many years doing stuff like walking forwards and backwards. But doing it to music, in time with other people, while remembering where my hands are supposed to be – pffft! Sometimes it just doesn’t work.

After class, I showed my girls the video and, once they stopped clapping (bless them), Miss 11 wisely responded ‘You know, Mum, I’ve been dancing for eight years – that’s a lot of practice. You’ve only been dancing properly for two weeks.’ She’s got a point.

It’s the journey, the experience, the learning that matters.

I just need to remember that.

And practice.



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Born to Boogie Series

A thirteen part series exploring Ruth's makeover from dorky writer to disco diva

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