The Dance

Do you remember going to dances when you were in middle school? It seems Middle America has been waltzing with this "rite of passage" for a very long time. I was thinking about going to dances in the sixth, seventh and eighth grades the other day as the burb was having a dance at the Middle school. I pondered my own children's experiences but then I thought of my own and I couldn't get the thought out of my head. I remember getting ready the day of, deciding what to wear. In those "olden times" you got dressed up to go to a dance--like in a dress. It was important to look older, I recall. Flat shoes just wouldn't do, and always stockings. Of course this was before pantyhose, so the requisite armored undergarments were necessary. The hair had to be Just Right. Not too long, but definitely not short either. It had to be unfettered also. No ponytails, no upsweeps. Down and as straight as you could get it. But all that was the preliminaries. At the dance the girls stood on one side of the gym and the boys on the opposite. Certain girls were allowed to mingle, but they had certain words attached to them too (fast, easy and trash spring to mind). The boy always asked the girl to dance. This dancing was the old fashioned kind too. Box step, I think it was. One foot forward, one to the side, one back, one to the other side. You didn't travel much and there wasn't much call to talk as you were concentrating on either leading (if you were the boy) or following (if you were the girl). This was right before the Beatles music brought with it the idea that dancing could be done independently, gyrating across the floor without any seeming partners. Your right hand was on the boy's shoulder, your left in his hand. There was usually quite a distance between your bodies as you began your box-stepping. I remember one of the fast girls and her boyfriend went by the guy I was dancing with and they yelled, "Hey, want a ruler to make sure you're far enough apart?" They shuffled off, hanging on each other, snickering. We danced to songs like, "Blue Velvet" or "You Belong to Me" trying not to read too much into your partner's semi-embrace, but hoping it meant that they liked you at least a little. There was a lot of nervous laughter at least on the girls side of the gym. And the guys side seemed to be a lot of pushing, shoving and guffawing. And when the night was over and the moms and dads picked the kids up at the end, you frequently had something to write about in your diary. A long time has passed since I was at a dance. I'm sure the music is different and the gyrations are more pronounced. But I'll bet the butterflies in the stomach are still there. The jostling around on the side of the dance floor. Wondering if you'll get to dance with that cute guy or not. Some things probably never change.

It's just a little pinch...

The above is what almost any doctor will tell you before they plunge a needle into your skin. Whether it's for an antibiotic or Novocain, they preface the pain you'll feel later with the anticipation of the short pain you'll feel when the needle punctures your skin. And, in their defense it usually is just a little pin prick, hardly worth mentioning. I think they say it so you'll be prepared instead of flinching and causing them to tear a hole in your arm, mouth or wherever the "pinch" will be placed. I heard this little phrase this morning as I went to a dermatologist to get a small cyst removed from my face. She gave me three "little pinches" above my left eye in anticipation of the cut and subsequent digging in my face to get this small growth out. And it was small, really. It felt big when I touched it above my eye, but in retrospect it was less than a centimeter around and sort of a brownish-lumpy looking thing. The numbing agent she gave me is beginning to wear off now and the dull ache that I feel in my forehead is probably a foreshadowing of a long night to come. But this piece of me that I didn't want there is gone, anyway. I had two moles removed last summer. They weren't grotesquely evident to anyone, even to me really. But the location of them was troublesome when wearing a necklace and the one on my back sometimes would get irritated by my clothing. The dermatologist assured me that they weren't cancerous or anything, but I got to thinking then as I am thinking again today of why I went to the trouble of being punctured and prodded. Why not leave well enough alone? The moles have been with me since, well, childhood, I guess. Most of the time I didn't think about them. The lump underneath my eyebrow was just sort of there suddenly, but it didn't hurt. So why the removal? I don't know honestly. I don't really think it's vanity, although I've fooled myself about that enough to believe that I'm not (for those who have trouble following that statement it means I don't think I'm vain, but I know I really am!). The lump under the brow was removed because I secretly thought it might have been something bad and if I ignored it, it would become larger and more arrogant. But the moles were, well, I guess I just figured I had good insurance, so why not make sure they weren't anything bad and have them removed. Of course the "bad" is cancer. The specter of cancer lurks in my mind many times. It's a shadow cast behind family and friends. I've lost people I've really loved and admired to that big "C" and I don't want that disease to think it has a chance to become my new best friend because I've overlooked something. So here I sit on the couch, blogging away, as the numbness wears off and the day wears on. Thinking of this and that and waiting for the next dosage of Extra Strength Tylenol. Fending off thoughts of what it could have been and knowing that I'm okay. And hoping you're the same.

Moonrakers

While hubby and I were perusing the local paper the other night we became aware that the house we first lived in together was on the market. Yep, the first house we fixed up, re-wired, painted, papered and had our first child in was for sale. The owners who are selling it obviously have done some work since we lived there. The ad states it has an eat in kitchen. The little galley kitchen we used barely had room to turn around in, so obviously it has been upgraded. I have dreamed of that house repeatedly. In those dreams it is still the cute little place where I learned to be a wife, then a mommy. In the dreams though, I am always leaving it for somewhere. I don't know what that means in "dream speak". I don't think I care really. Our daughter laughingly said we should buy it and thereby come full circle. And so help me, I thought, maybe that was a good idea. But hubby and I, if we ever move, want something on one floor. Something that as the little old people we are becoming can stay in and not worry about climbing onto the roof of the porch to fix it or climbing into the attic to find out what was leaking into the kitchen. So practicality has been our motto; if we ever move. Still it was fun to reminisce about the ol' homestead. And think what life was like then and how it has become now. The sale sign is gone now and I'm sure some young couple has begun their new life there. I wish them luck and happiness. Something the house seemed to bring to us. We've been to Moonrakers and we've moved on.

Greenery

We attended the Flower Show yesterday, hubby and I. The theme this year was Hawaii. There were hundreds and hundreds of orchids everywhere! I love to look at orchids. I've only got one in the house and it seems to be growing well--oh, I shouldn't have said that, now it'll probably die. Anyway, I love admiring the varieties of orchids and well, really, any type of flower. Squinting closely at the way the coloring seems to follow the veins in the petals, admiring the graceful arch of leaves, checking out the way the roots either push up from the dirt to get a better sky view or humbly remain hidden in the dark recesses of the loamy soil, I really do enjoy studying plants. As we wandered the aisles and elbowed our way into the display areas, I was again amazed at the variety of say, tulips or daffodils. The seemingly endless array of orchids. The subtle nuances of the various ferns in the judging areas. Of course, I looked at the blue ribbons and thought to myself, hey my "insert-plant-name-here" is just as good looking as that, I could have won! But the difference between the people who entered their plants and I (besides the fact that they entered and I didn't) is that they care about winning the ribbon. Whereas I just like to have them inhabit my space with me. I love the way the poinsettias are still blooming in March in the front window of the living room. I appreciate the green accents in the sun porch in the corner, even if I can't remember the names of the plants. The african violets on the windowsill are my way of greeting the morning, even when I can make myself wake up enough to say hello to the hubby. Outside, the weather has been relatively warm for a winter in Zone 7, and the daffodils and crocuses are confused and coming up a little early to greet the season. I like their ambition. I like the splash of color before everyone else gets into the act of dressing up in their greenery. I restrained myself at the Flower Show. I bought two small plants to add to my collection. I would have loved to have purchased so many others. But we needed to ride home on the train and lugging a wheel barrow full of posies was not really what I wanted to do. But still, I took a few pictures with my phone and I'll be able to revisit the blooms if I choose. Which isn't as good as having them here with me, but it will have to do until next time.