by Cindi Pearce (Tue Dec 08, 2009)
I
probably should have declined, begged off, but I didn't. I'm trying to be civic
minded. I agreed to choreograph a dance for an upcoming Christmas show that a
local club is sponsoring. I also agreed to dance in the production, which was,
in all probability, mistake number two.
In one of
my former lives, I was a tap dancer, instructor and choreographer.
I can
still do all of the above. I just hadn't done any of the above in
a long while. I am rusty.
My
assignment was to choreograph, and teach, a Rockette-like performance of March
of the Wooden Soldiers. I studied the Rockette video and figured it out.
Figuring it out was a walk in the park compared to teaching it, but I managed.
So the dance
routine is coming right along and I think the group of 18 Rockette-wannabes
will surprise and delight the crowd when we take to the stage on December 13.
Of
course, we had to come up with a costume. We attempted to replicate the outfits
that the real McCoy Rockettes wear and I
think we have done a relatively good job. We're going to be wearing leotards
and stretchy dance pants, neither of which are forgiving. Of course, this is no
problem for the real Rockettes, who are stately, with near perfect bodies.
I am not
over the weight limit (I'm kind of small), but I'm certainly well over the age
limit. The dancers range from 15 to 56 and guess who's the 56 year old? I
started to panic at the thought of getting out on a stage, in a leotard and
dance pants. During the dance, our butts are often facing the audience and the
thought of my ‘fallen' butt on view, in front of 500 people, gave me pause.
By God,
if I was going to do this I was going to look good while doing it, and not like
a foolish grandma who should have better sense than to dance with teenagers.
Upon the
advice of those in the know - meaning girlies who are thirty years my junior - I
ordered some Spanx. You know, those nifty body-shaping tights that hold you
together and shove things in and, hopefully, up?
My Spanx
arrived. I needed a shoe-horn to get into them but once I got them on I found
them to be very comfortable. I got the kind that are called ‘Tight-End Tights'
and are high-waisted, which helps prevent that glob of tummy fat from squishing
up and rolling over the waistband (which apparently happens if you get the kind
that stop at your waist). These suckers go right up to the bottom of my bra.
And then
I noticed that, (oh, no!) there was a hole in the crotch. Damn it, I'd
received a defective pair and would have to send them back.
My
daughter, who'd heard me curse, asked, ‘What's the problem?'
I told
her: ‘There is a hole in the crotch.
The Spanx are defective. I'm going to have to send them back.'
She
rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. ‘The hole is supposed to be
there, mom.'
‘It is?
Why?'
‘So you can pee!'
Oh. Cool.
Now why hadn't I figured that out?
My
‘semi-crotchless' Spanx and I are ready for battle. Onward, upward (hopefully)
and off we go to prance around a stage with a bunch of youngsters.
At least
if pre-show nerves get the better of me, I won't need to take the shoe-horn
into the bathroom.
