Confessions of a (very) curvy girl: Bellydancing in a bowling alley...again.

Tap/Ballet, Age 4

My favorite part of tap dancing class, aside from the shoes (love the shoes with their clack, clack, clackity clack) was watching myself in the mirror. My Mother used to do my hair in locks, and I loved jumping up and down and watching them bounce - it could literally have occupied me for hours - and because I was distracted by this, it allowed my psyche to gloss over the fact that I hated recitals with a passion and did not relish being constantly corrected by my teachers for paying more attention to my hair and making faces in the mirror than I was to class. Tap was fun. Then somehow I caught sight of a ballerina one day, or maybe it was a friend from tap class who also took ballet - at any rate, somehow one day the ballet bug was planted in my brain.

So when tap class was over, I asked my Mom if I could take ballet the next time instead. She agreed, and so it was set. To be quite honest with you I don’t remember the details of what I was required to wear to tap class, but what I do remember is being distinctly aware of how uncomfortable I was in what I was required to wear for ballet: black leotard, pig pink tights, pink slipper shoes. I think in tap we were allowed to wear shorts or something over our leotards, so you can imagine how appalled my 4-year-old self was when on the first day of ballet I walked in and saw all the big girls (this was kind of an open all ages class) in their leotards, unabashedly fine with it; apparently feeling no shame at being what I equated at the time to nearly naked in public. I remember being in the hallway about to walk into the class when I was arrested by witnessing this scene through the door. My eyes widened with horror, my pace began to slow, and...

I don’t remember exactly how the tantrum started, but there it was raging (for everyone to see much to my Mother’s chagrin) in the hallway outside of my would-be new dance class. “Don’t make me go in there!” I remember saying. “No! Nooooooo! I don’t want to!” and when my Mom tried to reason with me, to remind me that I had chosen this, I would desperately cry “I’ve changed my mind! I’ve changed my miiiiiind!” I mean, that’s how I remember it. To my Mom I’m sure it looked and sounded to her like her little girl had just lost her grip on reality, screaming and fighting and in sheer terror over a dance class. “E-liz-a-beth!” she said, “What is the matter with you?” And I couldn’t explain. I still cannot explain my irrational horror at that moment. What I can tell you is that it multiplied many times over in the following few moments during which my Mother lost her patience with me and began forcing me to go in. Making several futile efforts to escape, I was inched ever closer to the door. When the teacher said I had to take off my sweater, that was it. I looked at my Mom, and, recognizing my panic, she took me out in the hallway to talk with me again. She said as she held me by the arm and bent down to look me straight in the eyes, “Elizabeth, you know that if you make the decision to not go in there today that this is it. We won’t be coming back.” I nodded my head vigorously in relief. I believe afterwards the owner of the dance studio and my Mom worked something out and I was back in a tap class again soon thereafter, in my comfort zone; or so I thought.

I imagine that my fear of performing in public in any even slightly saucy manner is rooted in the following: I had been in tap class long enough and was now old enough to be a part of the dance school recital. I greeted this prospect with suspicion and animosity from the start.

“Oh no, it’ll be cute. The girls are going to be doing a little can-can dance and they’ll have big poofy skirts as costumes. It will be just adorable, and she’ll look so cute on stage.”

I assume it was something of this nature that was sold to my Mother by my dance teacher, but it wasn’t going to work on me. I had to ask questions. I liked the idea of the poofy dress, and I was actually surprisingly fine with the prospect of doing some tapping in front of people, I mean, after all, tap is probably one of the least revealing dances you can do, right? No. Not right. Apparently to end the show, the can-can girls were all going to turn around, bend over, and shake their bustles at the audience. The teacher let this little nugget of information slip while I was in earshot - big mistake.

I lobbied for my position, “So you mean I would have to shake my butt in front of the audience?”

“Well, technically yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But -…”

“No way. No…no. No. No. No. No. No.”

And then, in the air three feet above my toddler head, the dance teacher and my Mother discussed something I couldn’t quite hear.

The teacher turned her head down to address me, “Well, you can dance with the other class of girls your age instead if you want to do that. They are going to be poodles.”

“Great”, I thought. I was going to trade being a cute little can-can girl for being a poodle because I had standards. “Fine. I’ll be a poodle. They don’t have to shake their bustles at the audience, do they?”

“No.”

Of course poodles don’t have to shake their bustles. Why would you when you have a tail instead? When the day of the recital came, this same teacher told us right before we went on stage, “Now remember at the end, turn around, bend over, and give your tails a good wag at the audience.”

I’d been duped - but let me say this: such tail wagging before had never been seen! Once trapped, I figured that I’d better give it my all. I couldn’t let anyone see that I was embarrassed. If I was up there and all of my lemming-like classmates were going to shake their tails, I was going to do it the best. My competitive nature has come out at the weirdest times now that I think back…

Present Day: Age 28, Hafla the day after tomorrow…in a bowling alley.

Do I know the dance? Sort of. Do I have confidence that I can do it without mistakes in front of an audience of my peers and strangers? No. Do I think I’ll enjoy it this time? I can hope, can’t I?

The piece we are doing is a drum solo, and the choreography is actually pretty cute. It involves a lot of turns and shimmies and accent moves, and by the time I’ve given it one run through I am sweating, so it is a good workout. In fact, my best friend Myrtle and I practiced it in my living room for three hours last Sunday (and I don’t mind telling you that by doing so we seriously weirded out the cat and got on her last nerve because from the look on her face I guessed we were interrupting her nap time.) We even videotaped ourselves dancing for the first time, because it is one thing to dance the dance but it is something entirely different to witness yourself dancing it.

All in all, I think it looked pretty good, but as Myrtle said upon reviewing the video in further detail, “we’re gushy.” It’s true. Myrtle and I, if nothing else, are gushy in our performance. I like the dance and Myrtle will be there by my side. What could go wrong?

Tune in next week to read about the aftermath…

You can contact Elizabeth by e-mailing her at elizabethpalmer@annarbor.com.