Sailing right along and then THIS happened

I hate these kind of titles every single editorial outfit does nowadays.

Last week we were sailing through practice. I have improved quite a bit and know all of the dance moves. My new problem is I do the moves at different points in the song than everyone else. But when I'm up front and I'm the only one kicking my leg up high, man. I nail it. 

So last week we were waiting for coach to get the next section worked out in her head and moms are chatting it up. Coach asks, "anyone do cartwheels?"

We're still chit chatting and yeah, I could at age 12. My arm shoots up as if an auto response to such s basic question. I look at coach. I look at my hand. Soon the wheels begin to turn again but it's too late. I'm a chosen one. 

I swear a bunch, do some extra stretches and she lines us up. I casually comment to the mom whose head is in my foot's air space to watch out because it's been oh 25 YEARS since I've attempted this. 

Song goes on. 5-6-7-8. We step. We sway. I go. I'm doing it! 

Left Wrist shouts out in agony as if to slap me across the face to knock some sense into me. Cut music. Girls are cheering. Moms are high fiving each other. One mom in the back comments she wished she could have seen the cartwheel by yours truly. Another mom proudly announces she HeARD it. 

And that my friend is a legacy I leave to my daughter. Loud, grunting cartwheels at age 40.

Mother-Daughter Dance Class, Day 4 - The Boob Bump

I'm improving. Coach says.

Actually, no, it's just that daughter is learning to get out of the way. I only stepped on her teeny little pinky toe once last night. She said it didn't hurt...

That other mom, the one in front of me...she can sway her hips when we do that step-turn-pivot-something. When I do it I feel like something straight out of "Napoleon Dynamite."

We added some parts last night, some parts that require me to 1) hold a beat; 2) do something with my arms; and 3) walk closer to daughter by the time we get back to "1". We have mirrors, it's not like I'm not forced to watch my flailing. Yet still on "5-6-7-8" I marched right over to her, arms opposite everyone else in the room, bumped her with my boobs and she went flying.

I got the giggles and we lost count. I honestly don't know if she hit the deck because I was doubled over laughing too hard and hoping I didn't also let one rip. Now THAT would be awkward.

Mother-Daughter Dance Class, Day One

Daughter jumped in jubilation when I suggested my feet were healthy enough to try dance class. It started tonight and following my first-ever dance class I think it might be worth blogging.

Here goes. First-hand experience, first-time dancer.

Walk in with 7 other moms and various aged daughters. Shortest person there is 2. I envy her perfected outfit. Coach tells us to start stretching. I'm in my tank, running shorts, new running shoes and mouth hanging wide open in fright. These shoes are too wide. They're sticking to the floor. Ah, I can get down there. Hang on...

Okay I'm down. How does Kid make her hands look graceful even when she's stretching? My mouth is still hanging open as I attempt to loosen my fists.

She makes us twist in this contorted position that is supposed to balance my body weight on one knee cap. It doesn't happen. Kid is providing positive reinforcement to get my back foot up so the wrong hand can grab it. I giggle which makes any success at this position even less likely. Coach walks by, I casually comment on bone-on-bone pain at the weight-bearing point and she says it happens with age.

I somehow get out of this position in time to spread my legs farther than they are supposed to while watching Kid point her toes, crawl to the middle and point and laugh at me. I'm wincing in pain thinking about what tomorrow morning will be like if I ever get out of this position. Then Coach says to do splits. What sadistic person thinks I can do the splits at a time like this? I may wet my pants.

We get lined up and begin foot steps. Something about a rocking horse? Cross one foot, step back, step over, don't trip, return to position. What? I stepped on my own toes on this one. Just when I think I have it down, she says switch feet. I stand there unable to move any feet watching all the other moms and that two year old figure it out. I silently swear at all of them.

By now it's 87 in the room, or at least my sweat glands think it is. Am I the only one dripping with sweat in here? We move to jumping. Friend says it's the split soar or something. Coach says it's like jumping a puddle. Kid says point my toes. They're all watching me. I wonder what to do with my mouth - do I let it hang open during these split soars? Where are my hands? Did I just fart?

And that's the end. Forty-five minutes gone in a flash. I do a high-five with Kid, wonder what color my knees will be tomorrow, discuss different shoes with Friend and walk out.

Didn't pee. Didn't shart. Didn't swear out loud. Dance day one: success. Time to ice.