Dancing With The Slobs:)

I, recently, moved to the promised land where all old Jews go to marinate; Miami Beach.
Unfortunately, I am nowhere near retirement, nor early bird specials, but I am perpetually cold and feel like I need a “little sweater”, even when it’s 80 degrees.  When I look in the mirror, I don’t see my mother, but rather my “Bubbie” (grandmother), who took me here when I was 16 years old and argued with me when I told her to “chill out” and learn how to have “fun”.  The conversation went something like this,

“Bubbie, we are on vacation.  You should learn how to have fun!”

I was frustrated that my grandmother’s idea of “fun” was waking me up at seven am to make sure we went to the supermarket, lest we waste away from starvation.  I was too naïve to realize that this woman had gone through years of hunger, fear, death and escape from death during the Holocaust and the trauma was always there.

She yelled back at me,

“Fun?? Life is NOT fun.  It’s brutal and difficult!”

 I NEVER went on “vacation” with my grandmother again, but this conversation remained with me for the rest of my life and in the usual twist of Irony, my life pattern became very difficult for over twenty years.  She was not only wise, but she was prophetic, because I never knew how to experience pure fun.  It was always tinged with sadness and sorrow.  I had my moments, but the weight of the world was always on my shoulders, literally, which resulted in two torn rotator cuffs.  My life has always been intense and difficult, yet very meaningful and character building. (I, now, possess more characters than a Bravo Reality Series or a Disney Parade).
Thankfully, this is all behind me and I have the luxury of pursuing enjoyable activities and smelling the seaweed, weed, the ocean air and the perpetual weekend bbqs on the beach.  I can finally exhale and attempt to live a normal, boring life.  Creating time to have fun is now, only third to working and having regular bowel movements. (not necessarily in that order)

When I moved here two months ago, a friend of my sister’s, a bit of a nebbish, tried to convince me to join in his latest obsession- Salsa, Meringue and “Zouk” dancing, the latter composed of slow, gyrating moves, the sort I haven’t seen since my stint at a “strip club”, during the Prohibition. This 40ish, very sweet, short and compact Jewish attorney didn’t seem to be the typical “Latin Lothario” with smooth moves on the dance floor, but maybe I was just making unfair assumptions regarding white, Jewish, straight men dancing.  Shame on me.

“I am enrolled in a competition at the Eden Roc Hotel on Sunday.  Will you come and support me”? Mr. “Twinkle Toes” asked.

“Sure, we will be there to cheer you on!”, I replied.  I hoped he didn’t see my “side eye”, followed by the “eye roll” that I shot at my sister-my idea of graceful choreography.
That same evening, I began to receive videos from him over “whats app” of him dancing with different partners.  Like watching a car wreck, it was repelling and fascinating at the same time.
I know it’s cruel to say this, but, there should be a warning label before people attempt these highly skilled maneuvers.  He was no Baryshnikov or one of those Russian brothers on “Dancing with the Stars”.  Though you could see the effort and enthusiasm, the skill wasn’t too apparent.  Still, I decided to go with my sister to the competition, which was now downgraded to the Miami Beach Hotel and Spa.  I was going to be a great sport.  At four pm, we got a text, saying that he would be dancing and we should get there.  My sister and I “jete’d” over to the hotel, joining approximately fifty or so dedicated fans of the fabulous dancers who were replete with glittery outfits topped off with tons of hairspray, make-up and 10 ft long false eyelashes.  THIS was fun.

We sat next to his parents in the front row.  It was “dancing in the round”.  The dancers competed on the floor which was a huge circle surrounded by the audience.  There were three judges at a table.  I looked around the room and smiled.  There were dancers of all ages, races, body shapes and skill.  I admired everyone there.

As our friend strode out with a beautiful, statuesque professional dance teacher to perform his first dance, we hooted and yelled, as he began to dance.  He was wearing a yarmulke, that fell of his head, while he was dancing.  His scantily-clad partner didn’t miss a beat and led him around the floor like the puppy dog he was.  This was way more entertaining than Netflix.

In fact, I’m still smiling AND having fun.  I may even take a free class.