5 of 490: Dance Lessons

Dear Lord, please forgive my mom for dragging me to sister’s dance lessons and for the shame I have by knowing the meaning of pas de bourrée.

All the psychological issues I have in life can be traced back to a specific disturbing childhood experience…

…being forced to watch my sister’s dance lessons.

To a young boy, this was the worst thing imaginable. On the scale of terrible boyhood horrors, it ranked right up there with plates of vegetables, girls with cooties…

…and forgetting to where pants to school.

I guess this was the natural consequence of being the youngest child. At an early age my parents were trying to teach me that I would get dragged around to all sorts of nonsensical stuff whether I liked it or not. Sure, it started out innocent when I was an infant with something like a play date. But it soon escalated to my sister’s dance lessons. Next thing I knew I was being dragged out to Eden, Idaho…

…whether I liked it or not.

Back in the good ol’ days, my sister was part of a competitive dance squad called the “Stargazers”. To get their routines down just right, they would practice — what seemed to me — like 100 times per week.

I was pretty young, but I still remember the place. It wasn’t a normal dance studio like the fitness club yoga class you are mentally picturing. No, the Stargazer dance studio was more like a medieval torture chamber for young boys.

“Did I just catch you picking your nose?” said some dark age authority to a small boy. “I decree your punishment is to watch dance lessons everyday during the summer.”

“No!” cried the small boy. “Please give me the iron maiden.”

My most vivid memory is holding my mother’s hand and walking up a dark narrow flight of stairs. At the top was a small room with a glass plate window that looked down onto the synchronized leaping dancers…

…That’s where I spent 90% of my childhood…

…I hated it.

That’s why it amazes me that dancing is such an integral part of all cultures. And that such crazy things have been accomplished with a simple dance. We can’t forget the time that the daughter of Herodias danced before Herod. So delighted was Herod that he promised anything she wanted even unto half of his kingdom.

“Well if you put it that way,” she said slyly. “How about you give me John the Baptist’s head on a charger?”

Whoa. That escalated quickly. Can you imagine being at a party like that? One minute you and your friends are playing an innocent game of poker. The next minute you’re matching their bet and raising them a head on a plate.

“Did you just say what I think you said?” your friends ask you. “Maybe you should go home and get some sleep?”

When I first read this story in the Bible, I started doubting my life game plan. Maybe I didn’t take full advantage of all those dance lessons I watched in my youth. Maybe if I had just learned how how to do a persuasive dance, I would be a lot more successful in life.

“What? I didn’t make the football team. How about now?” Bam! Cotton-Eyed Joe.

“What? I didn’t get the raise I was expecting. How about now?” Bam! All The Single Ladies.

“What? You don’t want to marry me. How about now?” Bam! Twerk.

We spend so much time telling people it’s their intellect and work ethic that matters. Perhaps a simple rhythmic gyration has more merit than we think. I’m surprised the Harvard School of Business hasn’t picked up on this yet. Someday when I’m famous, I’ll explain how I rose to the top in my book, “7 Boogies of Highly Effective People.”

Historically speaking, even the Bhimbetka rock shelters which exhibit some of the earliest traces of humanity on the Indian subcontinent portray evidence of dance. They also depict birds, musical instruments, families, pregnant women, men carrying dead animals, and drinking…

…All the makings of a good party even by today’s standard.

…I’m sure somewhere in those hieroglyphics was a painting of a head on a charger, the result of a dance party gone south.

And who can forget the instant classic “Gangnam Style”, which has garnered over 2 billion views on YouTube. A catchy beat and some weird horse gallop dancing propelled Psy to International fame and fortune.

If only I knew then what I know now, perhaps I would have looked forward to my sister’s dance lessons. But back then in my youth, it was miserable, miserable torture.

One of the end results of the dance lessons was a grand performance the Stargazers would put on for the citizens of Twin Falls, Idaho. Usually these recitals told a familiar story that the audience could follow along to, such as The Wizard of Oz. Thank goodness for this. It’s bad enough to be forced to watch an epic dance performance. Now imagine if you had no idea what the hell the people on stage were dancing for. Even for me it was pretty easy to understand that the Wicked Witch was melting as my sister twirled and hopped around.

The recital was a formal event, so not only did I have to sit in a chair for hours on end, I had to sit there quietly and in a shirt and tie. It was the trifecta for boyhood suffering:

1. Wear church clothes
2. Sit still
3. Watch dance

The recital followed a programmed agenda which spelled out scenes on a folded piece of paper. Do you know how slow time moves when you’re staring at the clock on the wall? Well, time moves exponentially slower when you are counting dance scenes and also looking at a clock. I’m tempted to ask for a grant to study if time could actually go in reverse when being subjected to this dastardly combination.

“And the Nobel Prize goes to Dallin Moon for proving time reversal,” I remember fantasizing to myself, watching the dance recital, shocked at the unreasonable extent to which my parents expected me to be patient and supportive of my sister.

The one cool thing I remember about the recitals was that my parents would always buy my sister roses to wish her luck. This wasn’t a common act in our family, so even though I despised those recitals, it helped me understand how important it was to my sister. Several years later in Eden, Idaho, the one thing that broke my mom’s heart was that my Sister was willing to abandon all her talents to go after other not-so-worthy pursuits.

“What happened to the sweet dancing girl we bought roses for?” they undoubtedly wondered.

As for me, the only relief of moving to Eden was that I no longer had to attend dance practice. And I was happy there was no such thing as a meth recital…

…on second thought…

…that might be something worth seeing…

…as long as I don’t have to wear church clothes.