Dance It

When I was 27, making my second stab at college in a small mountain town in Colorado, I tried out for a play. I'd seen the call for auditions randomly taped to the glass door of Hesperus Hall: a modern dance version of "The Nutcracker." I hadn't been in a drama class since my junior year of high school eleven years before. I'd never even acted in a play - unless you count my stumbling turn as Sally in "A Charlie Brown Christmas," my fifth grade class's showcase in 1976.

I tried out for one of the rare speaking parts and was quickly cast as a silent dancing rat. If you have recently seen the Nutcracker, you'll recall a short battle scene between the rodents and the toy soldiers.  In our production, we wee mice took on the stodgy warriors with a rather clunky capoeira, that Brazilian martial art that combines elements of dance and attack. My part involved lots of yoga-ish stances and tumbling on the wooden stage (which may account for my shoulder problems all these years later). The rats, as we tend to do, lost badly.

What I remember most vividly about our seven-night run was the evening of our final show. We rats were backstage climbing into our gray tights and applying our makeup, when a grave discussion ensued over how the alcohol necessary for the cast party could possibly be procured. The only rat who knew my background gamely volunteered me for the job. A little sophomore glanced at me and asked, "You're 21?" to which I replied, "Actually, I'm 27." Her jaw dropped in disbelief. She looked me up and down, then smiled patronizingly and proclaimed, "Wow, that's so great! To be your age and still doing stuff like this!"

Where you at, Li'l Rat?

I have never forgotten that girl, the way she pitied me and all the other 27-year-olds slumped by osteoporosis over our walkers, as if she herself would never reach that age.

She's pushing 40 now - funny how the number difference shrinks with time, isn't it? But we had less in common than our ages. I'm pretty sure she grew up to be one of those whiners who says things like, "Oh my god, I can't believe I'm going to be 40, I feel so old..." Which means today, two decades later, if she and I were at, say, a Zumba marathon, it'd go like this: We'd throwdown all Step Up Revolution style and I'd be all, "Yeah. Bring it. Check my body roll. Uh-huh. Tha's right." And all she could do is stand there with her mouth hanging open in disbelief.