That snakelike shimmy of the hips, coupled with quivering belly, with the come-hither wiggle of spindly spider fingers, tickling the air as they beckon you to come closer…come closer. Bellydancing is unequivocally sexy.
I, on the other hand, am not.
I’m clunky. I’m awkward. I’m uncomfortable with my body. The only time I like to dance is when I’m drunk and my companions are drunker. I dread my wedding.
Ten years of ballet lessons did nothing to ease this discomfort; only perpetuated it, really, because not only was I an awkward kid, but I was a chubby one. The chubby one; the lone dance class donut in a sea of snappy melba toast. Even 15 years later, I never feel graceful.
Bellydancing, though, seems to beg for the curvy girls. Which is why, when I saw this challenge, I thought, ok. I can do this. At least, I can try to do this without feeling like the other women in class will cower in the corner, for fear that it’s feeding time, and Tubby forgot to bring lunch.
Who better to accompany me to a bellydance class than, of course, my mother?
Mom is tiny tiny tiny, with a perfect dancer’s body even at 62. (I take after my father’s side of the family. Big-tittied Jewish ladies with chin hair and an absence of physical and social grace. Thanks, genetics.) She’s an enthusiastic, albeit time-warped, dancer. Everything’s a sock hop with mom, and it’s serious business. She puts her dance face on; pursed lips, scrunched eyes. Arms go up and out. Hips shimmy, as only baby-boomers can shimmy, thanks to Fats Domino and his sage wiggle wisdom.
Most importantly, my Mumma is always up for adventure. I, at least, got that from her.
I was home on Boston a few weeks ago, so I signed us up for a beginner-level bellydance workshop at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education, which was the least intimidating-sounding class I could find. Even with beginner classes, I always fear that everyone else will at least have some experience, leaving me to flounder around like an asshole. That very real and very stilting fear has kept me from pursuing a lot of things. If I get nothing else out of The Dirty 30 Project, I at the very least seem to have overcome my fear of beginner classes. I’m so dumb sometimes. What a waste of time, these irrational fears I have.
Our pre-class instructions were to arrive wearing a skirt or loose pants, with a flowing scarf tied around our waists. Most of my skirts hit above the knee (because I’m TRASHY!) so I went with yoga pants, but compensated with a fringed purple and tiger print scarf which, when tied properly, resembles something a gypsy teenager would wear to prom. Are there gypsy proms? I bet they’d be in more interesting locales than the first-floor ballroom at the Royal Sonesta. And no macarana. I wish I’d gone to gypsy prom.
The class took place in a dance studio complete with giant floor-to-ceiling mirror. Sweet. An opportunity to watch as my lumpy body stumbled through what should be an intricately sensual art form. Suddenly, I wished for a power failure. I wished for booze.
There were ten or twelve women in the class, and one shy’n’sassy little instructor, who wore a beautiful sequined bra top and billowy pants that were festooned with dangly spangles that clanged when she walked, practically trilled as she danced. Otherwise, though, she was the exact opposite of what I’d expected in a teacher; a pasty white woman with flat abs. Painfully shy. Softspoken, Somewhat disorganized.
I didn’t mind, though, because once she started talking, she reminded me of ME. This woman, this master bellydancer, was completely unsure of herself, and it showed. Until she danced, of course, but still…it gave me hope. It gave me courage.
Tiny shy woman taught us some basic moves; a bump and grind, a shimmy, some snake arms. And, to my surprise, I looked okay doing it.
I didn’t look as okay as most of the other people in class, not even my mom (curses!). At least, not at first. But once I began to feel more confident in what my body was doing, it occured to me that these other women weren’t self-conscious. They didn’t care what the hell I, or anyone else in the class, thought about their dancing. They were there to have fun.
Well god damn.
And once I let go of my own inhibitions, once I let myself forget that I didn’t know what I was doing and really got into the music, the movement, the moment, I looked in the mirror and saw that I looked SEXY. I mean, I looked really sexy. And that never happens, not even on Halloween.
The second half of the class was fantastic. We put a bunch of the simple moves together into a choreographed routine, and I did it. Didn’t just stumble mechanically through the steps, but really put some flavor into it, if I do say so myself. I felt like I was dancing, as opposed to just completing steps.
I loved it.
Mom did, too. But I knew she would.
Now that I’m back in San Francisco, I’m anxious to sign up for a full-on bellydance class. Maybe get beyond beginner level. Hell, maybe perform sometime. I don’t know. I do know that bellydancing made me feel great about my body, made me feel hopeful that maybe I have some sex appeal after all.
I promise not to let it go to my head.
Just my hips.
