“Mom, if you want to, bring your workout clothes this weekend so you can go to my hip-hop dance class with me on Saturday morning.” This was the seemingly friendly and innocuous voicemail message I received Friday afternoon from middle daughter Angie.
Whoa! I’d been geared up for a quick weekend jaunt to Des Moines with Curt for our granddaughter Catie’s fourth birthday party, envisioning cupcakes, book-reading and hugs. Suddenly the vision of my carefree weekend had taken a more ominous turn, suggestive of pain, suffering and/or humiliation.
I like to think of myself as reasonably fit for my age, but the truth is that lately my exercise habit has been, well, not a habit. I have a pattern of fits and spurts: long gung-ho periods where I hit the gym three times a week for weight training and treadmill, seasoned with yoga classes; interspersed with longer periods where I do Jack Squat. Zilch. Zippo. But even if the gym and I weren’t currently on a break, hour-long dance sessions led by finely toned, exuberant, jiggly-in-only-the-right-places Beyonces would spell only pain and suffering to me, of both the physical and emotional varieties.
The grueling physical exertion, though, I could deal with for one looooong hour. The hip-hop dance is what promised the humiliation. I know I’m not a bad dancer, because my daughters often ask me to perform impromptu a few of my signature moves. They especially admire a hand motion they term “Pet the Cat.” Based on the huge grins that break out across their faces, they obviously derive great pleasure from watching this hootchy mama get down. Sometimes they even call their friends into the room to share in observing my dance artistry.
But I’m nothing if not a realist. My heritage is of the inhibited, sturdy, practical, northern European variety. I didn’t get dance lessons as a child. Walls often jump in front of me as I attempt to pass through doorways. I dropped out of Zumba class last year halfway through the session for lack of coordination. And youth. And ability. Actually, there are lots more lacks that come into play, now that I think about it.
So, what to do about Angie’s proposition? As I saw it, I had three viable options:
a) Admit I was too lazy and would rather lounge in my pj’s drinking coffee all morning.
b) Pretend I hadn’t picked up my messages and hence, brought no appropriate clothes or shoes.
c) Suck it up, bring the stupid clothes and feign enthusiasm for the outing. After all, feelings follow actions, right?
In spite of myself I decided on Option C. Upon arrival in Des Moines, I informed Angie of my choice. “Great!” she enthused. “I’m so excited to post a status update on Facebook about it tomorrow.” Obviously, she relished the idea of showing off her hip mother’s boogeying ability to her Des Moines friends.
Class time arrived. I stood in the back row, in the corner, and hip-hopped up a storm. A full step behind all the at-least-20-years-younger women in the room, my arms flailing wildly, without the jumps, without most of the hip action, sweating like a stuck pig. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected, mostly because no one was looking at me. In fact, it was a lot of fun, proving that feelings really DO follow actions.
As I watched Angie and her friends from behind, excellent dancers all, and compared myself in the sea of mirrors, a disquieting thought came to me. Is it possible, just maybe, that my daughters enjoy my dancing more for the spectacle than for the art of it? I really don’t care. Let them laugh! One day, their daughters will pay them back, and they won’t care, either.
Besides, Angie said I did great, and I believe her. Feel free to ask me for instruction in “Pet the Cat.”
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Blades, Trains, and Grenades
A while back, hearing the pop song “Grenade” by Bruno Mars for the first time, I thought the lyrics macabre, a bit pathetic and totally unrealistic. OK, granted, my particular age group would not be his target audience. Undoubtedly I’ve grown somewhat cynical through my life’s journey and I’ve left my bright-eyed passion at a rest area somewhere along the way. But I’m pretty sure that even as a 17-year-old I never felt this way about anyone:
I'd catch a grenade for ya,
Throw my head on a blade for ya,
I'd jump in front of a train for ya …
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain,
Yes, I would die for you baby,
But you won't do the same.
My first thought was good lord, no! If it were my daughter he was singing about, I would hope she wouldn’t do the same. That’s just Mr. Mars’s off-kilter notion of romance. I’ve never even seen a grenade, except in the movies. Throw my head on a blade? Circumstances that would require such drastic actions are pretty much beyond the scope of my imagination. Take a bullet straight through my brain? Well, maybe … but only if it actually goes straight through. I desire a swift end; I wouldn’t care to have a bullet lodge in there permanently.
Most likely Bruno Mars just wanted his song to rhyme, and didn’t intend anyone to dissect it for its sociological implications. Grenades, blades and bullets aside, the jumping-in-front-of-a-train scenario IS somewhat plausible, especially around here with the busy Metra line. Such are the musings of a born-and-bred pragmatist.
Of course, someone with a less practical nature than mine would say Mr. Mars is expressing a very sweet sentiment, which is not necessarily meant to be taken literally. Although when I launched into the subject with two of my daughters, Christina asked me if I wouldn’t take a bullet to the brain for her dad. (Curt, if you’re reading this, now might be a good time to play some Spider Solitaire instead.) Though I love him dearly and I’d love to be the sort of heroic person who could honestly answer “of course!” without a moment’s hesitation, I had to think about it. Which, I suppose, is your answer, because if a bullet came whirring out of nowhere on a direct course toward Curt’s rather impressively-sized noggin, my taking a moment to think it over would render the point moot.
This macabre vein of conversation continued as Christina and Angie took up the subject in earnest. Probably in order to clinch her continued status as favorite daughter (at least as viewed by her older sisters), Christina shocked me by saying that she would take a bullet for me. Not to be outdone, Angie said that of course she would as well, but it would seem merely ingratiating to say so after Christina had said it first.
As dear expressions of love as those were, sincere or not, let the record show that if anyone is going to be taking bullets for anyone else here, it’s me who’s going to do the taking for my daughters or grandkids. Without hesitating for even a nanosecond. What mother wouldn’t? (The ones featured on the cable TV show “Snapped,” for starters. But that was just a rhetorical question.) Dredge up that old philosophical discussion question about who gets to board the lifeboat when the ship is sinking; if there’s only room for eight, our daughters and grandkids are getting on, no argument. Curt and I will go down with the ship.
And if that lifeboat should have room for nine, the person who I’m pretty sure would take a bullet to the brain for me is way more deserving of the spot.
I'd catch a grenade for ya,
Throw my head on a blade for ya,
I'd jump in front of a train for ya …
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain,
Yes, I would die for you baby,
But you won't do the same.
My first thought was good lord, no! If it were my daughter he was singing about, I would hope she wouldn’t do the same. That’s just Mr. Mars’s off-kilter notion of romance. I’ve never even seen a grenade, except in the movies. Throw my head on a blade? Circumstances that would require such drastic actions are pretty much beyond the scope of my imagination. Take a bullet straight through my brain? Well, maybe … but only if it actually goes straight through. I desire a swift end; I wouldn’t care to have a bullet lodge in there permanently.
Most likely Bruno Mars just wanted his song to rhyme, and didn’t intend anyone to dissect it for its sociological implications. Grenades, blades and bullets aside, the jumping-in-front-of-a-train scenario IS somewhat plausible, especially around here with the busy Metra line. Such are the musings of a born-and-bred pragmatist.
Of course, someone with a less practical nature than mine would say Mr. Mars is expressing a very sweet sentiment, which is not necessarily meant to be taken literally. Although when I launched into the subject with two of my daughters, Christina asked me if I wouldn’t take a bullet to the brain for her dad. (Curt, if you’re reading this, now might be a good time to play some Spider Solitaire instead.) Though I love him dearly and I’d love to be the sort of heroic person who could honestly answer “of course!” without a moment’s hesitation, I had to think about it. Which, I suppose, is your answer, because if a bullet came whirring out of nowhere on a direct course toward Curt’s rather impressively-sized noggin, my taking a moment to think it over would render the point moot.
This macabre vein of conversation continued as Christina and Angie took up the subject in earnest. Probably in order to clinch her continued status as favorite daughter (at least as viewed by her older sisters), Christina shocked me by saying that she would take a bullet for me. Not to be outdone, Angie said that of course she would as well, but it would seem merely ingratiating to say so after Christina had said it first.
As dear expressions of love as those were, sincere or not, let the record show that if anyone is going to be taking bullets for anyone else here, it’s me who’s going to do the taking for my daughters or grandkids. Without hesitating for even a nanosecond. What mother wouldn’t? (The ones featured on the cable TV show “Snapped,” for starters. But that was just a rhetorical question.) Dredge up that old philosophical discussion question about who gets to board the lifeboat when the ship is sinking; if there’s only room for eight, our daughters and grandkids are getting on, no argument. Curt and I will go down with the ship.
And if that lifeboat should have room for nine, the person who I’m pretty sure would take a bullet to the brain for me is way more deserving of the spot.
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