singing

Elegantly Clumsy ~ A Story of Fear And Feet ~ And Knowing What You Suck At

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A few years back I was described by someone, a dancer in a production I was involved in, I can’t remember exactly who it was because professional dancers have a tendency to become a blur of spinning fabulousness when you’re around them—as “elegantly clumsy.’

I almost wept with joy. I felt it was one of the highest compliments I had ever been paid. Besides, I only heard the word elegant. After that entered my ears—they stopped listening.
I never heard the clumsy part.
Well, maybe I did.
I just have to say that considering the circumstances—clumsy was still a compliment.

Back as a young girl in the midst of tween-dom, I was stick figure thin; a gangly compilation of arms and legs, with giant blue eyes, braces, and a tiny tween brain. What I loved more than anything else was to put on shows. God, how I loved that! Dancing or roller-skating and lip-syncing to the latest movie soundtrack on our long, smooth concrete patio. Funny Girl with Barbra Streisand was my favorite.

I could sing. Sort of. At the time it was a volume over substance sort of thing.
The trouble was, I also fancied myself a graceful dancer. Not a ballerina exactly, I wasn’t quite that audacious. But thinking I was a dancer was still a reach considering the fact that when faced with choreography, even the most elementary dance steps, my left leg traveled right, and my right leg, which has always had a mind of its own, did its very own version of Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance.

While all of that was happening below my waist; my arms, hands, fingers, neck and head appeared disjointed, like a marionette, unattached from each other in any kind of biological way. They twisted and turned, undulating rhythmically, part Hawaiian Hula, part Aboriginal Fire Dance with a touch of Tai Chi and a sprinkling of Bob Fosse.

They moved to some internal melody that was completely unrelated to the music that was playing out loud.

Eyes closed, I can remember feeling at one with every note of every song. I had no idea how I appeared to those who were lucky enough to witness my spectacular moves. All I knew was that I was a dancer…until I heard the laughter.

I remember opening my eyes and thinking—actually consciously deciding—I can play up the funny—or I can be self-conscious—I chose to do both.

For the rest of my tweens, I played up the funny, because if you act like you’re IN on the joke, then they’re not laughing AT you—they’re laughing WITH you.

Once I reached high school and starting participating in Musical Theatre, not getting the dance steps wasn’t funny anymore. I became almost paralyzed with self-consciousness. Almost. As luck would have it, God giveth whilst He taketh away. That singing thing had gotten a lot better which allowed them to overlook my awkward dance free-stylings.

While the cast would dance their amazing Broadway-esq ensemble numbers, I was moved to a stationary platform where I was asked, told, to stand still and sing, or to move ONLY my hands in unison with the others. After numerous failed attempts to do exactly that, we all decided, for the sake of the show, that standing perfectly still or sitting on the side of the stage was preferable.

When I decided to re-join musical theater in my fifties, I discovered menopause had helped me to forget how much I sucked at dancing. It was only my feet, those two things below my knees with painted toes, that jogged my memory and saved that tiny shred of self-respect that had persevered since High School.

They did that by completely refusing to cooperate.

I could barely point my toes, and pointed toes are to dancers what lips are to singers.

After only an hour of dance rehearsal, my arches screamed in agony. Every toe was distorted into an arthritic looking charlie-horse. I hobbled around trying to walk off the pain, but my feet knew better. They were saving me from dance humiliation.

Blame it on us, they said.
So I did.
What choice did I have?

The powers-that-be lowered their expectations of my ability to “move”. ‘The old broad has shitty feet”, they muttered as they choreographed around me.

I’m okay with that, I thought, even though the moment I left the theatre—my feet behaved normally. It felt better than the fear of them get wind of the fact that I didn’t possess one lick of dance talent.

I had one of the leads in A Chorus Line, a show about dancers and their passion for dancing, where I was begged not to dance. “God, I’m a dancer, a dancer dances!”, I sang into the spotlight with all of the sincerity I could muster, as I stood nailed to the ground.

It’s called acting.

Eventually, I was cast as Velma in Chicago where they made me dance with a chair. I mean, how hard could THAT be?
It was Bob Fosse style, which means you’re actually making love to a chair.
On stage.
In public.

I couldn’t do it straight. So I made it funny. Sexy-funny if there’s such a thing. I may have just invented it.

Anyhow, they left it in the show, and it was after a run thru of that particular number that one of the dancers came up to me and whispered, “I like your style”.

“Oh, really? What style is that?”, I replied between gasps of air, as I poured buckets of sweat onto the stage.

“You’re elegantly clumsy”, he said with conviction, like he had just told Baryshnikov “Nice Jete”.

I will live off the fumes of that compliment until the day I die.

Carry on,
xox

I Double Dog Dare You!

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The other day in the comments section of my blog about aging, my blogger/friend over at Gemini Ascending answered the question I so brazenly posed at the end:
Okay you guys, what little thing (dying your hair is a little thing, you can always dye it back) can YOU do to halt your aging process and help yourself look more like you feel inside?”

She said she was the same age that I am and that she was going to get the tattoo she’d been wanting.

Now me, being the ever curious nosey-pants that I am, I couldn’t just say great or good for you, I had to ask what and where?

“The tree of life on my shoulder” was her reply. I thought that sounded like a fantastic idea but again, I just couldn’t leave well enough alone.

The thing is you guys, I feel like I know all of you — like you’re my friends, especially when we converse via the comments, then we’re like BFF’s (said in a Valley girl voice while flipping my hair and loudly chewing gum). So I reacted like I would to any of my friends, like we do to each other, “I double-dog-dare you to do it, and share the picture. You have until the last day of your 57th year…game on!”

I know, it’s a bit confrontational, especially directed toward an absolute stranger, but hey, what the hell, I tell you guys EVERYTHING and I showed you a picture of my purple fringe.

Here’s the thing: A Double Dog Dare is a relic from my tween days, so that being said it is petty harmless.

Still, it is the ultimate, last word in dares. It means that I just did something a little dangerous and often utterly terrifying and now I want you to join me. There is no going back after a double dog dare. You either do it; or you walk the walk of shame.

Then yesterday, in my inbox was the most recent blog post from Gemini Ascending with the title I Double Dog Dare You.

Gulp. Shit. Had I gone too far? I didn’t mean anything by it except to nudge her toward her perfect tattoo. I’m not gonna lie, I was afraid to open it. Take a look:

https://geminiascending.wordpress.com/2015/05/03/i-double-dog-dare-you/comment-page-1/#comment-209

Whew! Crisis averted. She was up to the challenge. I knew she would be, I had just underestimated the persuasive power behind The Double Dog Dare. It has an alchemy all it’s own and I have to be more careful when I throw it down. Things will change, people will dig deep and find their courage and shit. will. go. down.

So I learned my lesson; for about twelve hours.

Today (Monday) at the dentist, my beloved hygienist, during our one hour, mostly one-sided gab-fest, mentioned aging and her girlfriends and how happy she was that she hadn’t jumped on the retirement bandwagon. Several of her close friends had retired and then gone right back to work out of sheer boredom. One retired couple she knows eats breakfast, takes a walk, eats lunch, takes a nap (yawn — kill me now)…you get the picture.

Why aren’t they traveling, being philanthropic or taking classes?” I inquired, amazed. “I know” she replied, “I would keep so busy!”

“What would you do, maybe take a dance class?” Uh oh…here I go, even with five of her fingers inside, my mouth starts asking questions.

“Yes!”  she exclaimed, and then told me to rinse.

She went on to explain, “When I was twelve to fifteen I used to take tap, I even took it when my girls were small. One of my patients is a choreographer and when she was here six months ago it came up somehow; anyway she told me about a tap class for people over fifty.”

Since her hands were otherwise occupied my mouth took the opportunity to cross-examine ask her about this class.

“Well, why aren’t you taking it? Did you call? You’ve GOT to do this!”

The conversation had struck a cord with her I could see it in her eyes, “I know! I just never got the info from her, we were supposed to exchange emails…”

I could feel the words start to bubble up. They began in my big toe, rose up into my belly; moving again to my throat; then my lips started forming the words…

“I double dog dare you to take the tap class Jeanette!” Now I’d gone and done it again — thrown down the gauntlet; pulled out the big guns.

The Double Dog Dare hung in the air overpowering even the sound of the drill in the next room. Now, you have to be careful with what you say to your dental hygienist lest she get all Marathon Man on your ass. Luckily she seemed open to the idea so I was safe for the time being, I just needed to keep my mouth shut; well open, but just nodding; no talking.

“You know” she said, all excited, “She’s due back in here for a cleaning this month, I’ll ask her for the details then.

Her face lit up and she looked more like her fifteen year old self with every passing minute.

“I bet the girls at the desk have her contact information, why wait?  Email her today, in the subject say, “I feel like tap dancing” and give her your personal email address. She’ll be cool with it — after all, she offered the info.”

My teeth cleaning was over so I could safely say that and then make a run for it.

You’re right, she will, I’m going to look up her info right now.” She was practically skipping.

“Hey Jeanette…do the recitals at the end of every session. They’ll scare the shit out of you and when you’re waiting backstage with your family in the audience you’ll think to yourself: What the fuck have I done? and then you’ll go on that stage and you’ll be fifteen again…it’s intoxicating…and the adrenalin is good for your skin.”

That stopped her in her tracks, she spun around and her eyes were like a deer’s in the headlights. “Oh well, I don’t know about that…” she stammered, feeling the fear.

“At our age what do we do that scares us? Think about it. We stick with all the stuff we’re good at. I Double Dog Dared myself into doing musical theatre a couple of years ago and it was the most terrifying yet exhilarating thing I’d done in decades. Just do it!”

“You’re right” she said like someone who has just been told they have to do something excruciating, like give up sugar for a year.

“Janette; call her, take the tap class and dance in the recital…I Double Dog Dare you.”

Damn I’m pushy.

And sometimes, I swear to God my mouth says stuff my ears can’t believe; but as I left she gave me a big, long hug and thanked me. For reminding her about dancing and feeling alive and aging and feeling fifteen again.

Whew, another disaster averted and not a bad day at the dentist.

Ok you guys..I double dog dare you to take a least ONE action. Something you’ve been putting off, waiting for the perfect time. We’ve been focused on age related activities but it can be anything!

Come on — what’s it gonna be?

Carry On, and on, and on,

xox

I Feel Like Shit, I Think I’ll Sing

I FeeI Like Shit...I Think I'll Sing

*This is reprise of a popular post from November of last year, so it will be new to many of you. Enjoy your weekend!

Standing and staring at my naked reflection in the Nordstrom’s dressing room mirror (that in its previous life was a circus fun house mirror.) I’m cringing under that hideous fluorescent lighting that is so bright you could preform neurosurgery, yet somehow, it still manages to cast perfect shadows on every lump, bump and divot my thighs possess; I suppress the urge to cry as a Cadillac sized lump forms in my throat.

I am not trying on swimsuits, although that form of torture is just as necessary an evil.
I’m standing with a pile of Spanx at my feet, racked with waves of intense vulnerability even though I’m the only one in the room. Hell, who am I kidding? I’m a tougher self critic than a thousand Joan Rivers’.

But everyone can relate to that…right?

Oh, what about singing alone on stage?
Is that vulnerable enough?
Under the unforgiving gaze of a spotlight on a pitch black stage, I’m positive everyone in the front row can see my lips trembling…
Deeeeep breath…can they smell my flop sweat?

But all of this is my own damn fault.

When spring had sprung back in 2010 and I realized, shit,
who am I now that I don’t have a job, let alone a career?

Life appeared black and white to me, drained of all color.
I fell into a funk. it was deeper than a funk actually, it was my own personal, dark swirling edie of despair.

During that long summer, I would sit at the computer in my pajamas at two in the afternoon (something I NEVER do unless I’m ridiculously ill, in which case I don’t troll the internet, I watch I LOVE LUCY reruns) and I would search the World Wide Web for something to make me happy.

I’d spend hours watching silly cat videos, and babies laughing at tearing paper.

What brings me joy? I would ask myself.
Myself thought the question was rhetorical, so it just kept putting different searches into Google.
What makes me happy, besides what I’ve done all these years?

Who AM I without that?

Singing used to make me happy, I thought one day, remembering the ancient history of that time long, long ago, before I turned 30.

MUSICAL THEATRE ADULT WORKSHOP

I had sung and done theatre from the age of about 7 until I turned 30.
That was the day I became a grown up.
Better said, it was the day I realized I wanted to live above the poverty level. I wanted to have more than $50 in my my bank account.
I wanted to see the world, AND I also realized that if I worked as long and hard at something else, Anything else, I could be a success.
So I did, and I was.

Cut to: 
20ish years later, 
no store,
No career,
Epic debt,
What’s a girl to do?

I decide to sing again.
Cause THAT’S what people in dark swirling eddies of despair do.
They make GREAT decisions AND they break into song.

I hadn’t sung a note since quitting all those years ago, my husband, having met me in my 40’s, didn’t even know that side of me.

But the fear that came up when I thought of getting back on stage, was different than the fear I had been experiencing around the loss of the store.
It felt familiar, like an old friend somehow.

And the pounding of my heart and the stage fright,they brought me back to life.

So I hit SEND on the application, and left it up to the Universe.

Six months later, as a Christmas present, I got an email back.
They were doing CHICAGO, and was I still interested?
Hell NO! CHICAGO!!! Really!?
I can’t dance, and I hadn’t sung since Jesus was a boy.
And those skimpy little costumes? I’m over fifty.
NO WAY!
FORGET IT Universe. Nice try. Jeez.
I just want to ease back in, stick out my toe, not dive off the deep end.

Above is a picture my talented sister took during the show.
That’s me in the middle, I’m Velma.
So…you’re starting to get me now huh?
I can’t do anything half way. When I jump…I jump!
See that woman?

No more black and white, back to a Technicolor life.
That’s a picture of me, Janet, finding her bliss.

*much love to Amanda,Jules,Mark and Jeremy for their immense talent and endless patience

Hi, I’m Janet

Mentor. Pirate. Dropper of F-bombs.

This is where I write about my version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

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