Life is a Polka

Being an October baby, it’s appropriate that Polkas have something to do with important markers in my life. You know, Oktoberfest and all. The first marker was when I was around fifteen. After learning how to dance the polka, my cousin and I decided to host a polka-themed party at my house. I made invitations out of craft paper shaped like Alpine hats. We invited our circle of school friends and dressed up in whatever clothes we had on hand we thought polka dancers would wear. There was no dancing going on, mind you. The house was too small. However, the homemade invitations were really cute and the towers of sandwiches my mother made for us to nosh on were a big hit. Plus, boys came to the party. Boys. Dancing. Boys. What to wear? Boys. Forbidden Planet. Boys. Mr. Spock. Husbands. Children. Dancing. Boys. Diets. That’s it. That’s the story of my life. High School was a series of crushes and school dances. Whoever I danced with I fell in love with…until the music stopped. We didn’t polka anymore. We slow danced. Slow dancing in the 1950s meant hanging onto each other and rocking back and forth from one foot to the other. If the light was dimmed, the hanging turned into hugging. (Last year a good friend described the new dance his Lindy teacher taught the class: Slow Dancing. Seriously, he paid money for a lady to teach people how to hold each other closely and walk or rock from one foot to the other. I could have taught him for free.) All forms of partner dancing ended for me in college when I met my future husband. I’ve seen him on the dance floor twice. Once was at a Halloween party when his costume was a sheet and giant pumpkin. He only lasted one dance because he couldn’t breathe with his head inside the pumpkin. Twenty years and a pumpkin dance. That’s what I got. The other time was when he and his new bride did a ballroom routine at their wedding after taking dance lessons for that express purpose. I had mixed feelings while watching them. Although partner dancing was out and babies were in, two of my three sisters-in-law managed to get out of the house one evening a week with me to take belly dancing lessons at the local Parks and Rec. Why? It seemed like a good idea at the time. Exercise and all. When it came to buying costumes and dancing in front of strangers, we quit. I was left with an appreciation for the art and a set of finger cymbals. Then husband number two came along with a promising start. He belonged to a group of couples that went ballroom dancing once a month. We lasted about three months. His reason for going was to meet women. He met one, so why bother? Twenty years later he agreed to take a ballroom dance class if I agreed to go target shooting with him. Fair’s fair. Then class ended and so did our dancing and couples night out at the target range. Finally, after a lifetime of waiting, I found my dance partner. It was divine. I’d never known such joy as waltzing around the room with him. He was just as obsessive as I was so we took every class we could find for every type of partner dance we could discover. We danced four nights a week and every weekend. The only thing lacking was the “boy” part. We both liked them. Came the day that husband two was living in a trailer in East Texas and I needed to rethink my choices in men. The first man in my life had decided to tell me about the piccolo player he wanted to marry on the day I’d decided to throw myself into his bed. The second one had decided to live in the guest house so he could practice becoming a monk. The third had armed himself to be a vigilante when the black helicopters arrived. None of them would dance with me. The fourth one danced, but only with a crowd around for his own protection. Perhaps I should broaden my outlook. Maybe I‘d have better luck with women. I decided to test my theory when my dance buddy took me to an event hosted by a studio that taught ballroom dance to same sex couples. I noticed the arrival of a woman who was particularly attractive in a homely sort of way. She had the same kind of frizzy curls I had; she looked like maybe she was Jewish; she much taller than I was, but things were looking promising. She asked me to do a slow dance and we had a nice time awkwardly making small talk. Then later, the dance hostess played a polka. I leaped up and shouted, “Who wants to polka with me?” The only one to answer was my dream girl. We ended up being the only couple on the floor, hopping round and round …. I’d say in gay abandon but the pun would be too obvious. When the song ended and I sat down next to my buddy, I was totally out of breath. He looked at me in amusement. I leaned close and whispered, “She’s such a strong girl!” His smirk grew wider as he replied, “That’s because she’s a man.” I stared at him and then shrugged my shoulders. “Well, that answers that question.” Years later I joined a ballroom dance studio and had the pleasure of attending classes and private lessons with a group of lovely young teachers, sweet people who were kind to old ladies trying to finally get on the ballroom dance floor. Several of them agreed to learn historic dances because by then I was obsessed with dressing up in hoop skirts and pretending to be Queen Victoria’s BFF. It was my burning desire to learn the Bohemian National Polka so I could say yes in case I ever got asked. My teacher agreed to learn it. Everything was swell until we got to the twirling and hopping parts. Too many years had passed. I’d forgotten how to hop and twirling was out of the question. Bless his heart, he never gave up. We practiced until I could actually do a mini-hop and pivot two or three times without throwing up. It was his intention for us to demonstrate this dance in front of students and guests at a future showcase. I came to class in a hoop skirt just to practice centrifugal force. After many fittings, I delivered the Melton wool, gold braided Prince Charming jacket I made for him to wear. Actually, I delivered it on the day I told him I was quitting the studio. “What? Why?” “I need dental work, sweetheart. It’s a matter of teeth or dance lessons and I’m choosing teeth.” I haven’t found my perfect sugar daddy yet, but my teeth are straight. On the odd chance I may go to a Gujarati folk dance, I practice hopping a few minutes every other day. And if it should happen at some reenactment dance that a strong man or woman asks me to do the Bohemian National Polka, I’ll be happy to say yes, even if it means having a heart attack in the middle of one-two-three-hop. That would be a perfect marker for this stage of my life.