“Can I call you the dancing master?!”

In my tap class we are working on three things this term:  speed, turns and “pull-backs.”  Of the three I seem to be best at speed.  Which is not to say that I am such a fast tapper.  Just that I’m really bad at turns and pull-backs.

With turns, there are three things to keep in mind:  head, arms and feet.  The head is supposed to be “spotting,” i.e. keeping your eyes focused on a non-moving target, preferably in the direction in which you are turning.  The arms are supposed to open and close with the turn.  The feet are supposed to be, well, dancing.  I am pretty good at controlling two out of three much of the time; it’s getting all three to do what I want at once that’s my personal downfall.  It doesn’t help that I have trouble keeping my balance in the first place.  Walking and chewing gum simultaneously would no doubt be a challenge for me, if I were the gum-chewing type.  Anyway, it’s very easy to forget what I’m supposed to be looking at when I’m so busy thinking about where to put my feet.  I really shouldn’t have to think about such things.  In fact, it would probably help if I thought less about them.  But that’s like asking me to stop worrying about my kids.  I simply must know where my feet are at all times. 

For those of you unfamiliar with the term, a “pull-back” is when you brush the floor with your toes as you jump up in the air and then land again on your toes.  It’s harder than it sounds, and right now we’re only doing pull-backs off the heels.  Eventually we are supposed to do them off our toes as well.  Jump off your toes while striking your toes against the floor and then landing again on your toes.  Yeah.  Right.  Anyway, this is another thing that is apparently easier to do when you’re not thinking about it.  It is an up-and-back motion, and while I can go up just fine and back just fine, I am having difficulty with the up-and-back-at-the-same-time action.   At least I do not have to chew gum, too.  I would most likely choke.  Anyway, I tend to do a pull-back correctly once in every session, but once is my limit.  Wednesday night I happened to accidentally do it right just as the instructor happened to be watching me.  If I could just accidentally do things right all the time, I would be in business.  But that does not appear to be my lot in life.  You need a lot of strength in your quadraceps to execute this move with ease, and strength is not my strong suit, quadracep- or otherwise.  So I have to spend some more time jumping up in the air at home.  Fortunately, I do that a lot anyway.  I just have to remember to put my quads into it more, that’s all.

Speaking of fitness, I have been intending for quite some time to work on “strengthening my core.”  I read in Newsweek two years ago that middle-aged women with strong core muscles are indestructible–can walk through fire and bend spoons with their minds and whatnot, in addition to not getting osteoporosis and humpbacks, or whatever.  So the closer I get to middle age, the more I sense the urgency to strengthen my core–muscles which, after thirty-plus years of neglect, are more or less impotent.  After having the baby, I decided I would try Pilates.  Why Pilates?  Because the accessories were cheaper than the yoga stuff.  I don’t know.  Doesn’t matter because after one session it became clear that the frontals or obliques or whatevers that spread apart when you’re pregnant had apparently packed up and taken an extended vacation and not left a forwarding address.  Very bad situation. 

So I, ah, lost my enthusiasm for Pilates rather quickly.  But the urgency is still there, two years later.  I decided that I would try working with a fitness ball.  It just seems like it would be easier than just lying there on the floor and expecting my non-existent stomach muscles to get me up again.  First I bought a Gaiam ball, but I had to take it back because it was the wrong size for me.  They didn’t have a Gaiam ball in my size, so I decided to go with the Reebok core strengthening kit.  It comes with a ball and hand weights and a DVD and a hand pump for pumping up the ball.  Actualy, the exact words on the ball are “Ball Pump–Inflate the 65 cm ball quickly and easily.”  Translation:  “It beats hell out of using your lungs, doesn’t it?  So quitcherbitchin’, you wuss!”  Strength in the arms is also not my strong suit.  Fortunately I am not supposed to pump up the ball to its full size initially.  I’m supposed to do it over 48 hours.  I will probably take 72, just to be on the safe side. 

And when all is said and done, I will be bending spoons with my mind and doing pull-backs like a pro.  Just wait.  (Bring a book, though.)

In the apropos of nothing category, an acquaintance from church told me she had been given some dresses that “weren’t going to work for her,” but she thought they’d be my size, so would I like to have them.  She might have noticed that I have been wearing the same two outfits to church for the last four years (when I wasn’t wearing one of my two maternity dresses).  That is because I need clothes I can conveniently nurse in, and I am very picky about my clothes, which is why I haven’t managed to buy more of them over the years.  Once I wean the baby, I will have plenty of clothes to wear, and since the fashion industry apparently operates on a twenty-year cycle, everything I have should be in style again by then.  Anyway, that’s neither here nor there.  It’s hard to say no to this kind of thing–not that I don’t appreciate free clothes, but what if I don’t like them?  Will I hurt her feelings if I never wear them? 

So I asked what size they were, and she said one dress was a size 4 and the other was a size 2.  Oooookay.  I think I wore a size 4 once, when I was nine.  I told her I didn’t think they would possibly fit me, but she insisted that they did look as though they would, and who am I to argue with this nice person who thinks I’m that thin?  So she gave me the dresses to try on, and said that if I didn’t want them, it was no big deal, she would just give them to DI–or I could give them to someone else.  “They’re just not going to work for me, so I thought you might like to have them.”

Well, I don’t think they’re going to work for me either, and not because they don’t fit–I don’t know if they don’t fit or not because I haven’t tried them on, and the reason I haven’t tried them on is because I know I would never wear them because they are simply not at all flattering.  They’re not ugly, exactly.  I’m not sure how to describe them, really.  The only word that really springs to mind is “sexless.”  Not that your Giraffe is in the market for hot&sexy ensembles as a rule–but these dresses make my own wardrobe look like J. Lo’s.  I can actually feel my self-esteem dropping just looking at them, and they’re not even on my body yet. 

So I will probably return these clothes to my friend so she can give them to DI, as I cannot think of anyone who is both smaller and less inclined to dress provocatively than me.  Perhaps if the next First Lady wants to go for that off-the-rack look.  Would I get a tax break?  Who knows?