Almost two years ago I got a call from Staci Bertagna of Plus One Mentors and the YMCA about a new summer fund-raiser, Dancing with the Stars.
Would I care to participate, she asked. She said it would be really fun, and I’d be paired with a professional dancer, and I’d have a few weeks to train with the other dancers and community “stars” and of course, the whole thing would culminate with a huge fund-raiser at the Cascade Theatre where the audience would judge its favorite dancing couple.
All proceeds would go to a really good cause, she said.
I’m competitive, but not when it comes to physical endeavors. A bake-off? I’m in. A writing contest? Where’s my keyboard? But a dancing contest?
Are you crazy?
I told Staci I’d be glad to bake something or donate a dinner or a pasta-making class or something. Anything. Except don’t ask me to dance on stage. In a contest, for Pete’s sake.
She said they didn’t need anything baked, but thank you.
What a relief. Off the hook. Gee, I said, maybe call me next year.
She did. Last month. She reminded me I’d suggested she call me this year.
Damn, damn those tickler files!
As she talked, my brain thumbed through the most plausible excuses.
1. Well, Staci, what a great idea, and it does sound like a heck of a lot of fun, but I think I’m busy that night. (It’s July 12, the day after my birthday. Surely I’d be out of town.)
2. Gosh, thank you for asking, Staci, but I think I’ll be in the Czech Republic that week, visiting my son and daughter-in-law. (It could happen, especially if I book my trip now. Where is that passport?)
My third excuse was the winner, because it was the closest to the truth.
I told Staci that perhaps she hadn’t heard, but I no longer worked for the newspaper.
I wasn’t a star. I was unemployed.
She’d heard.
“But you’re still a star to us,” she said.
Well, that softened me. But not enough to sign up for public humiliation. So I said I appreciated being asked but I had to say no.
I offered to bake something. She said no thanks, Dancing with the Stars had no need for baked goods.
Oh well, sorry, I said. Nice talking to you.
Same here, she said.
I hung up. I stewed about it. I really should have explained my reasons more fully: I’m overweight, plus I have no natural rhythm. Also, I do not buy that trite saying that encourages us to dance like nobody’s watching, because the truth is, everybody is watching.
Just the thought of dancing for a crowd and I have flashbacks: a chubby 9-year-old in ballet class where I was granted the part of a gift-wrapped box for the Christmas pageant. My scuffed ballet slippers showed; nothing else. And as an all-dressed-up teenager for an evening at a fancy restaurant with my father. My sisters and I visited him and went out with him that night. He was a San Francisco celebrity (radio sex talk-show host); everybody watching Don Dance with His Daughters. We were on the dance floor with him, moving to fast music. I felt like a freak. So stiff. I couldn’t dance. I wanted to evaporate.
“Feel the beat, girls,” he said. “Feel the beat.”
Back to Dancing with the Stars. Why in the world would I agree to subject myself to something so completely out of my comfort zone?
Comfort zone. What is a comfort zone, anyway? Lukewarm? Not scalding? Room temperature?
If there was ever a time of life when I was beyond my personal comfort zone, the last few months takes the cake. My decade-old newspaper job – the one I’d worked so hard to achieve – ended in October. Not my decision. I lost my steady paycheck, medical benefits and my entire newspaper career. Kaput. All of it.
I started this blog, and then this Web site, led first by my youngest son, and then you; helped by my friends and my husband.
Was it familiar?
No way.
Did it feel certain or stable or secure?
No, no and no.
Am I glad I’m here?
Hell yes.
I called Staci back. I explained all the reasons I’d said no to her offer: the whole comfort zone situation, the fat factor, two left feet, etc. etc., etc.
Then I said yes.
I said I’d do it.
Life is sometimes uncomfortable.
But if I’m lucky enough to keep living and keep having birthdays; if I’m lucky enough one day to reach 82 or 92 or 102, I don’t want to reach that late station in life and berate myself with: Good grief, girl! What were you so afraid of? That people would laugh? That they’d think you looked stupid? That you’d lose the contest?
What if all those things happened?
So what?
Am I alive now?
Do I have legs and feet that move?
Am I healthy?
Yes, yes and yes.
I’ve got six months to prepare for Dancing with the Stars.
Feel the beat, girls.
