Dancin'

Friday evening, there is a major event planned as a fund-raiser / community gathering for Master's agency. It has been a full year in the planning. I have not been a major part of the planning process. I've pitched in and helped some, but avoided connecting to this business. I've passed out posters, and passed out fliers and put the community invitation information up on my "teacher" blog thinking that maybe some of my kids' parents might be interested. Beyond that, I've stayed out of it and just quietly fumed about the whole thing.

Because it is a dance. Big, whoopie-doo, dress-up dance. Complete with a band and fancy duds and kewl kids -- just like in junior high.

Makes my stomach turn. From the moment they started talking about this thing, I've been arms crossed and grumpy-faced. I have hated the whole idea of this evening, and now it is just over 48 hours away.

I don't dance. I remember dances from way back when I was just a kid in 9th grade, and it makes my head pound. I never was good at the dance thing. I was the wallflower at all my school dances. I was the too-tall, gangly, pimply-faced kid whose mother dressed her funny. I'd go to the school dances, find a wall to back myself up against and hope that the "mean girls" of the junior high universe wouldn't notice me. I always knew that my dress was wrong and my hair was wrong and my shoes were wrong. I would sit there in the corner and take the inventory of my physical short-comings and inadequacies, and know absolutely that there were good and obvious reasons that no one EVER wanted to dance with me. I'm sure, from an entirely intellectual point of view, that school dances never lasted more than a couple of hours, but in my gut it feels like they must have been at least 9 hours of absolute misery.

Now I'm 53 and not 13. I'm way past the point where the "mean girls" can actually hurt me anymore, but somewhere in my head, that kid is still there -- crunched up against the wall of the school gym, wishing the earth would open and swallow her whole. She is continually telling me, in no uncertain terms, "I do not want to go to any fucking dance!"

This dance will be different in lots of ways. I have some standing with this community -- have been around long enough for people to know me. I'll dress up and look presentable, but there will be no dancing. We can't risk that. It will be an evening of smiling and greeting and talking up the cause. I'll be there doing the good work of the agency. I'll be there as part of a team of people, each working to bring our community to a better and richer place together. I'm not the wallflower that I remember. I'm a board member, and I'm His. We don't have to dance for that to be the truth.

Maybe this won't be as awful as I (and she) have thought all along. I can find the place where I can do this evening.

swan