Dancing Queen

There was a period of my life where I was devastated not to be a member of the Brady Bunch. While I stand by this notion to this day, I still do not know if my fixation on this TV family was due to the novelty of a singing and dancing home life or it being one of the first “grown up” shows I watched after moving on from cartoons. I loved the hubbub in a house full of six kids, the parents, and Alice, the lovable, witty maid. I loved the groovy clothes, the weird furniture, and the fact that Mike had is own room for his drafting table. How confidently selfish of him, jamming in three children per room but keeping a private art studio downstairs for himself. As the youngest child and a natural born entertainer, the concept of singing and dancing about your feelings really delighted me. What a happy place the world must be. I lived as though each day was a new episode of the Brady Bunch … except that nothing noteworthy ever happened in the first grade and Ellen didn’t like me much and my parents rarely communicated in song. As quickly as I was energized and motivated to live like Marsha Brady, my hopes were shattered. Real life proved to be quite dull and I would go on to feel a longing for musical camaraderie for many years.

So instead I signed up for dance classes. I was born to dance. I was sure of it. Mom helped me pick out little pink ballet shoes and some tights that gave my legs the glow of a mild sunburn and I twirled off to my dance class. As the youngest child and a natural born entertainer, I was oddly disturbed by being significantly taller than the other girls in the class and standing out made me very insecure so I quit that dance class shortly after.

World's tallest child ballerina.

As elementary school carried on, I thought lovingly about the Brady Bunch. The warm companionship of so many siblings, a mother and father that shot flirty eyes at each other as they sang… was there anything better?

Turns out yes. By my tween years I discovered a British Pop sensation by the name of S Club 7. Seven, twenty-somethings singing and dancing; except these ones were all very attractive and adventuresome and didn’t have to live by the pedantic rules of Mike and Carol Brady. S Club 7 existed in the same modern world I lived in, so becoming a member of this band seemed much more attainable. Not just a band in real life, S Club 7 was also given their own scripted tv show where they played a British band trying to make it in America. To make ends meet they worked at a run down motel in Florida and throughout the triumphs and trials of each episode, they’d break out into song. It was the dream life. I was re-enlivened and once again my urge to groove got the best of me. As the youngest child and a natural born entertainer, I signed back up for dance classes.

This time around I was much less concerned about being too tall. What set me apart this time was my rail-thin frame and naive disposition. I was too old for the children's class and too young for the adult class, so I became the sole eleven year old in a hip-hop class with two buxom twenty-somethings who had ample booty to shake. They were confident and sexy and cool. I was skinny and sweaty and quite mortified by the chest pumping and butt shaking because I had no parts to jiggle. When you have no parts to jiggle, no meat on your bones, any dancing beyond a delicate waltz or perfectly pointed toes looks clumsy and spastic and like a bent wire coat hanger unfolding in a trash can. We danced our recital piece to Beyonce's “Bootylicious." I stood next to my voluptuous classmates and shimmied my boney chest with gusto. I swung my narrow hips hither and yon and I'm certain no part of my routine looked appealing or tantalizing. This was not the role I envisioned for myself as the eighth member of S Club 7 so in addition to being embarrassed, I was also feeling unprepared for my TV debut. It was shortly after the Bootylicious affair that I quit dancing forever, for I just seemed to never fit in with the people in dance classes. 

I spent the entirety of my high-school years refusing to be seen dancing. At night, after supper and homework and Ellen's meltdown, I'd go down into the playroom and close the door, turn on the fan, and bring down all the blinds. Sometimes I'd hang a towel across the glass door so that Mom couldn't peek in on me. Then I'd turn on my tunes and boogie. I'd leap and twirl and lip-sync for a a good hour or so before I wore myself out, took a bow and exited stage right.
My stage fright towards life only increased as I got older and I skipped all geeky school dances and parties thrown by folks who I knew would be playing "club" music. Sometimes I'd get trapped and boy, nothing makes you want to dance less than someone harassing you to dance. During this time of closeted performances (which became increasingly rare and difficult after moving into a college dorm with two other girls), I watched the film version of Mama Mia and I could hold back no longer. I bought the soundtrack and played it on repeat for about a year. I don't recommend the film mind you. Unless you're a whimsical dreamer that isn't looking for reasons to dislike a film, you probably won't like it. My own mother didn't like it and she's been looking for opportunities to groove her whole life. One time I came over to her house and caught her dancing by herself in the dining room. She had headphones on and didn't know I was watching her for a good minute of rug-cutting. She expressed embarrassment in that endearing way she does. I digress. Mama Mia. How I longed to be one of the anonymous background dancing singers. Not only were they flown to Greece to sing and dance, but they got paid to sing and dance! Since my viewing of this cinematic masterpiece, I vowed to boogie anytime I feel the urge to boogie and I have not looked back.

I write this now, eightish years later, having recently watched the new sequel to Mama Mia. I believe this film got even worse reviews than the first one but my fatigued dancing limbs were reinvigorated by the Grecian scenery, pop music, and the young tanned cast of singers and dancers. Throughout these twenty years of longing be part of a theatrical performance, I've always been much younger than the people playing the parts I wanted. I was ten years behind Marsha Brady and fifteen behind my beloved British buddies. I'll admit to you that just this past weekend I looked up to see how old the Mama Mia actors were just to see if I'd be an eligible candidate. I'm proud to announce that I am. Finally, in my late twenties, I'm in the same age and girth category as the rest of the cast members. I spent this weekend singing show tunes to Brett and dancing around with increased vigor knowing that people my age are paid to do so. Brett has not seen this amount of enthusiasm from me before and I'd argue he seemed mildly concerned as I shimmied circles around him while he took out his contacts.
"You're going to crash so hard when you finally sit down." he told me. I did a double pirouette and let out a high note C.
"AhhhHaaaa!! Not a chance. I'm in my prime!"

I fell asleep as soon as I sat down. I don't remember going to bed or turning on my alarm or anything.
Guess that's just part of life as a performer.