When I was five years old I started tap dancing. When I was six, I started competing and won a first place trophy. I danced to Barry Manilow. My costume was full of gold sequins and a dramatic gold headpiece that I still have. The next decade was full of more shiny costumes, cans of hairspray, hooker make up, late night practicing, some tears and many, many smiles.
That was my childhood. I've never been to Disney or on a road trip to the Grand Canyon. The dance competitions were vacations. What would have been the vacation fund, went to private lessons, costumes and new shoes. (Here's where I mention my amazing parents. My Mom sewed costumes. My Dad drove me to all my lessons and sat in the waiting room with all the "dance moms." I was such a lucky child.)
When I was 16, I started teaching a beginner tap class for young children. I loved it. I bonded with those children, and I think I was more excited than they were when they final got the shuffle down. Then, just as classes were starting up for the fall of my second year, my dad passed away unexpectedly. After going through the roughest and most terrifying time of my life, I went back to teaching a month later. Maybe I wasn't ready, but it just wasn't the same. My heart wasn't in it, and I decided to move on.
It's now been a decade since I put on my tap shoes. I knew they would still fit. When my mom came to visit a few weeks ago I asked her to bring my black tap shoes with her (I also have a pair of tan shoes, but c'mon … we all know how much I love wearing black). She remembered, of course, and this past weekend I put them on. I didn't try them on at home first. I just packed them into a bag, headed to a studio, signed into a class, and finally … put on my shoes. I felt 16 again. I fell in love again. I was going to tap again.
With all my years of experience, I figured an Advanced Beginner course would be a breeze. I forgot that this is New York City. Everything is harder than it is anywhere else. This class was a challenge. Even though my self-esteem was taking a dive, I was keeping up with the class (for the most part). There were even a few steps where my technique was just as good as ever. I liked those moments. The moments where I threw my hands in the air, not so much. I'll get there … I know I will. The hardest part was putting on the shoes and walking into a class.
When it was over, I called my mom to tell her about the ups and downs of my first class in a decade. Her encouraging words helped, as did my ability to laugh at myself. All in all, I'm sure I wasn't that bad. One student even told me I did really well for not dancing in a decade. But, I'm just extra hard on myself. I figure if I take a couple classes a week, I should get comfortable in my shoes again in no time.
All I know is I was the sixth student to walk into the scratched up, wooden-floored room. The number six has always been good to me. And that goes all the way back to my first competition. That has to be a good sign.
I only wish I could have called my Dad to tell him. He would have told me to listen to "Daybreak" and let it all come back to me.
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