"God, I hope I get it"

by OFA Staff

Guest Blogger Adam Kassim [http://www.youtube.com/v/k9wsUgilAQE&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=... Not until I was trying to relax my muscles in a hot shower did I fully understand that perhaps my original estimations of a Musical Theatre Dance class were naïve and that perhaps, just perhaps, I was not as fabulous a dancer as I remembered myself to be.Okay Class. We are going to take pliés in first second fourth and fifth, two demis and a grande – don’t take a grande in fourth because we don’t want to hurt the knees – instead take a relevé and hold it – then we will go onto tondus and degagés in first and fifth.WHAT?!Tondu – who? Dega – when? Hold where? My mind vaguely recalled these terms from dance class 15 years ago, but my body apparently didn’t get the memo. Don’t worry, I thought, you are not taking the class for credit.Thankfully, Kristin was teaching our class. Whether explaining body mechanics or reviewing Fosse choreography, Kristin is generous and so very patient. Were I in her place, I would have gone "Norma Desmond" weeks ago. Under Kristin’s guidance, I managed to muddle my way through Sweet Charity’s shimmy, West Side Story’s mambo, A Chorus Line’s quick-kicks, and Hairspray’s ball-changes.Well, a little more than muddle. But not much more.Toweling off, my muscles still felt the battle wounds of the day’s dance class. But somehow, I didn’t mind. I had earned each sore, my badges of honor. Maybe I was not the dancer I fancied myself to be, but at least I was dancing.