The first hour of this New Year found me dancing like it was 1977. Forget the intricate steps of Balboa, the tight eight beat framing of Lindy Hop, the complex patterns of Collegiate Shag – this was a forty year regression to being a teenager in Birmingham. I shimmied to soul classics, pogoed to punk, got down and dirty to the reggae beat, and skanked to the Ska rhythms.
It nearly killed me!
As the night’s designated driver I can’t even blame alcohol, but as I arched backwards, gyrating my hips and waving my arms above my head, my spine refused to bend like it was 1977 and suddenly I was wobbling, dangerously off balance and clutching for my husband to stop myself crashing, humiliatingly, to the floor and being trampled to death by my fellow dancers.
In addition, after a particularly energetic response to Mountain High River Deep I developed a very bad stitch.
The Middle Age Tight Rope
So here I am adrift in the middle years of my sixth decade – glad to be alive and able to dance, with the spirit still flaming brightly but the flesh showing signs of wear and tear. How much can be expected of this body of mine and how much must be accepted? Those of us over fifty – walk the line.
In this blog I want to explore the challenge of being a middle aged dancer and the ongoing project of growing older with grace!
A Party Invite
The Sufi poet Hafiz (1320-1389) wrote in his poem The Invitation.
No one can refuse a Divine Invitation
That narrows down all our choices
To just two:
We can come to God
Dressed for Dancing
Or
Be carried on a stretcher
To God’s Ward.
The Plan
I’m going with the ‘dressed for dancing’ option and in the forthcoming weeks I’ll be blogging on dancing, dressing up and how I’m managing to keep a balance between living life to the maximum and, at the same time, preparing myself for the final number that awaits us all at the end of the night.
Well, we will look forward to the weekly reports….
Keep dancing and smiling.
Love
Steve and Frenchie
What a wicket quote – am sending it to Sibley now. Fantastic stuff Sal, keep it coming!
Love it! Paul’s 80-something Dad was still dancing at Christmas – and after a stroke he can barely walk and can’t see. He carried a radio of music and would get to his feet at every opportunity
That’s so inspiring to hear Emma. My hero is Frankie Manning, a swing dancer from Harlem, who danced with more than 90 different women to celebrate his 90th birthday! Way to go.
Simply brilliant you are saying all the things that I have been thinking about lately . Looking forward to the next blog x
Thank you Fiona
That conjured up lovely memories, Sal; I remember dancing with you in 1977 (I think it was a rugby club disco) and it was so much fun. It’s also a timely positive sentiment that you express. Never mind the political catastrophes, 2016 was an absolute pig of a year for me on a personal level which raised fundamental questions about my sense of identity and purpose, to which I don’t yet have adequate answers. Probably one of the hardest years of my life. But as you say, we can chose to face our challenges with either determination or resignation, and we can go down fighting or slide into ignominious oblivion. I might be fated for the latter, but my heart is still firmly with the former!
What you need Don Trueman is more dancing in your life! Get down to your local swing dance class – you’ll love it. But great to remember dancing together all those years ago. xx