I, Georgia Delaney, am going to learn to dance. There, you have it in writing. You might not believe this to be so outlandish an aspiration. Clearly, we are not well-acquainted. Ballet when I was 5, and my mom thought I would look precious in a tutu; hip-hop when I was in 7th grade and just wanted to be cool like Hannah Tomlinson; swing dancing in college. Dance and I go back a ways. Our relationship, long though it be, is not a very good one. It demands I step when supposed to, remember turns, not look at my shoes, and do it all with grace and ease. Unreasonable. However, I am turning over a new leaf. I am going to learn to dance, to float and flit about the floor with the grace of Audrey Hepburn, who I shall never be like but shall ever try.
I mean, why not? That's what my friend Sophie says. It's a little overused, but she takes it seriously. No boring living for Soph. If she got it in her mind that she was going to teach inner city slum children how to read, she'd do it. If she decided to be a physics professor, she'd do it. In my personal opinion, Sophia Jean Christiansen is a girl who lives mightily. It's a pity dear old Soph lives about a thousand miles away, or I might try to talk her into coming dancing with me. It wouldn't take much convincing. She outlived me in the dance studio and has no fear when it comes to choreography.
It all started when I ran out of milk. Running out of milk is to me what running out of bandaids is to the school nurse - emergency with a capital E. So I hopped in my Jetta, flew around the corner to the grocery and intended to go straight to the dairy section, no wandering, no meandering. Here I should say something someone famous wrote about the best laid plans or good intentions, but I don’t remember what they said. Whilst I was wending my way to the dairy section, my best laid plans were waylaid by a cunning apron display. Have I told you about my obsession with aprons? I love them. I love them philosophically, I love them socially, I love them pragmatically, so on and so forth ad nauseum. Here I was, good intentions in hand, and there stood the apron display. One in particular caught my eye. It was a blue floral with peachy colored trim and pockets. Mmmm. Delish. Enough about aprons, back to milk and dancing.
After un-waylaying myself and successfully procuring a gallon of good old 1%, I strode back to my car, feeling at peace with the world. Upon approaching my car, I sneered with annoyance at the presence of a flyer of unknown content. Pest control services? Not interested. Lawn mowing? No thanks. Security system? I AM my security system. Further inspection rendered these assumptions inaccurate. Hello, dance advertisement! It read as follows:
Come and dance.
The music is playing, the floor is polished. All we need is you!
Social dancing lessons from swing to samba.
Today can be the day you learn to dance.
No partner necessary.
Beginner, intermediate, advanced all welcome.
I am generally impervious to advertisements. I was, after all, a business minor. I know how these things work. They have years of strategy and rhetoric behind them. I also know a few things about economics. In the economy of Georgie, there is a demand for living with a "why not" sort of air, and I think this dance class will supply it. Besides, I'm all about building community and preserving the arts and getting involved. I refuse to fear dancing.
Most determinedly yours,
Georgie
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