Gettin’ Down with Hip-Hop

“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.”