Barkley Dances

When I was in fourth grade, we started having sex-ed programs in school. It was stupid. They would separate the boys from the girls and we would all learn about our bodies and all us girls would watch these cheesy VHS movies about becoming a woman and all that mush. Bor-ang

My mother had already taken me out for an ice cream that previous summer and told me all about it in the car. That was one trip to Baskin Robbins I'll never forget. I'll never look at orange sherbet the same way again. It dripped down my arm as I sat there in pigtails while my mother told me about the birds and the bees. My mouth gaped open while I listened and wanted to throw up.

So, like I said, by the time I was sitting in class watching these stupid videos, I was way over the shock. I will however say that looking back, I'm so glad I heard about all that stuff from my mother first, instead of hearing it from anyone else.

It was also in fourth grade that kids were now allowed to enter "Barkley". Barkley was a very pretentious ballroom dance studio and every parent in our WASP town wanted their kid in Barkley once they hit fourth grade. They did not allow ballroom dancing at a younger age because they knew that the boys and girls would not be interested enough in one another to actually dance with each other. Up until this point we were still running abound the black top at school giving each other cootie shots because the boys would make us cry from all the punching of their dead arms.

But not in fourth grade. I don't know who decided that fourth grade was the magic number in our town, but somebody did. Maybe they all got together at the town meeting and decided that fourth grade was a good age for their children to grow up. Or maybe it's because puberty starts for most kids around 9 or 10. Actually, that's probably it, but I just like the idea of an town meeting.

Before I go any further I should probably explain Barkley a bit more. You see it wasn't just a dance class. It was an etiquette and manners class too. It was co-taught by a husband and wife and held at one of the snooty country clubs in town. The class was held in a large oval dance room with seats all around the outside. It had a dress code. Girls were required to wear party dresses, dress shoes and white gloves. Boys had to wear slacks, loafers, a button down shirt, and tie. Mr and Mrs. Barkley meant business. Every class they themselves were dressed to the nines. She was a very glamorous older woman and the only way to describe him was debonair.

The girls were taught to how to sit like a lady instead of like a slob. We were taught that the most polite way to sit was by tucking our legs under us and crossing our ankles, but the traditional crossover was okay too. Boys were also taught how to sit so that they didn't look like pre pubesent monkeys flopping all over the place in their chairs.

They taught us how to bow and curtsy and shake hands. Mostly though, they taught us how to dance. Mr and Mrs Barkely taught us everything. They would demonstrate the dance in the center of the room and then the little band of old timers they had would start to play and we would all follow. It was hilarious, but at the time it was no laughing matter. I remember we were all so nervous that at the end of each class, my white gloves would be damp because of all the sweaty hands I held. Thank goodness for those white gloves or I would have been wiping my hands on my dress every 10 seconds.

They taught us everything. The Box Step, the Cha Cha, the Waltz, the Charleston, the Pretzel, and on and on. By the time the lesson was over we would start to loosen up and have a good time with each other once we got the steps memorized. They also taught us how to politely cut in by tapping another person on the back of the shoulder. Then by the end of the session, it would become like a competition to see who could do it the best and the last couple dancing (who never made any mistakes) got a prize.

I remember one dress of mine in particular. It was pink with a high neck, and a satin bow in the front. I would wear it with the first pair of black patent leather tiny heels my mother bought for me. My favorite thing about the dress though was that it twirled. I would spin in a circle in front of the mirror and it would twirl way out. I loved to wear that dress to Barkley and get twirled by my partner while we danced. I felt like a little princess. It was the first time I ever experienced the feeling of breathlessness from a young man, but in the most innocent way possible. It was just a fun sweet feeling of wonderment, and the first time I felt recognized by a young boy as not some annoying pesky girl, but as someone a little bit mysterious and not like a child, but more like a young lady.

I can't believe this but Barkley now has a website. http://www.thebarclayclasses.com/aboutbarclay.html It's still going on apparently. If you've read this far then I'd encourage you to read the "About Barkley". And if you ever meet me on the dance floor and don't know what to do, then I'll just pull out my little white gloves and show you a thing or two.

Weddin' Sayin's

I went to a wedding yesterday. This was my favorite saying:

"Choose your Love, then love your choice."

Nuff said.

Procrastinate-a

Shoulda.
Coulda.
Woulda.
But I didn't.
...

Now I gotta.

The Runaway

Yesterday I was driving home from the grocery store when I saw something unusual. At the traffic light I looked over to see a young girl running down the sidewalk in dirty wet socks, a sleeveless shirt and no coat. I rolled my window down and shouted from three lanes over, "Honey, do you need help?" She was crying, red faced, cold with dirty scratches all over her arms. "No." She yelled back. Obviously, this kid needed help. I called out again, "Where are your shoes?" She just shook her head and buried her face in her hands. At that point she had reached the cross walk and was waiting to cross the street. The light turned and I had to go, but this was not a grown-up, this was a child and I couldn't ignore her. I pulled around into a parking lot just after the light and go out of my car in time to see her crossing the street and coming my direction.

This time I didn't give her the option to receive help, I just walked over to her and said, "Honey, let me help you. Let me help you, what happened?" She just started blubbering about how "He hits me and my brother. I hate him..." I tried to calm her down. I managed to find out that she was 11 and her name was Chloe. She wasn't making a whole lot of sense but was visibly cold so I explained to her that I was a teacher and that I would help her and told her to get in the car with me. She did and I brought her home with me.

In my head I was freaking out. I'd never done this sort of thing before. I totally reacted out of a mothering instinct I suppose. I had no idea what I was doing and it's a good thing my roommate wasn't home because I don't think she would have appreciated me bringing a runaway home.

Once we got to my place I told her to throw out her dirty socks and I gave her a clean pair, I found some shoes of mine for her to wear and gave her a sweatshirt. I sat her down on the couch and she began to calm down. I just kept telling her it was going to be okay, (not having any idea what that meant) but knowing that's what she needed to hear. I let her read some magazines and walked away and went to another other room to call the police.

In five minutes I had three police officers in my living room. It turned out that the person who was hurting her was not a man, but another child, which was a huge relief, but the situation was still really bad. Apparently her mother left her father for an old boyfriend and he's not a nice man. She said that he has never hurt her, but obviously he's a harsh man and she desperately wants to be with her real father.

It was all really intense. When all was said and done, the cops had to take her home, she hugged me and thanked me. I felt terrible letting her go, but I couldn't keep her.... I can however pray for her, forever. And I will, and hope that by casting my bread upon the water, someday, even if it's in eternity, it will come back to me.

A Month of Sundays and More...

I woke up this morning to a phone call from my doctor. I've been off of work for a month now and after my first and hopefully last MRI ever, they found the problem. There is a gigantic pregnant alien in my neck. Just kidding. I have a bulging disc in my lower cervical vertebrae.

I've lost track of doctor visits and watching the medical bills come rolling in make me feel like I'm on a game show. Every time I open an envelope it's like I hear a DING! in the backround and a voice inside my head goes "CONGRATULATIONS! You now owe 1,000,000 dollars to your insurance company!" Okay, okay it's not a millon dollars, but it might as well be on a preschool teachers budget.

So now I must wade into deeper, murkier unknown waters. A neurosurgen evaluation, spinal epidural injections...more PT. These are words I never expected to utter at the beginning of 2011.

I feel helpless in my body. Completly. Helpless. I miss running. I miss hiking. I miss my kids and being able to work in general. Most of all, I miss my health.

Lord, none of this is new to you. You know the end from the beginning. So I submit myself to you. Please take care of me and heal me in your time. Amen.

The Winds that Whirl

My life is a whirlwind. So much so since I started going back to school at night (over a year ago) while working full time-that I have little time to allow myself to do the things I really enjoy doing, like writing. Like drawing with Sharpies. Like running. Like taking dance lessons. Like cooking. Like being a better friend...and the list goes on.

I've realized at this point in my life, something will always be gnawing at me to occupy my time...so tonight this phrase came to mind:

"Psalm 46:10a Be still and know that I am God."

Oh yes. How quickly we forget. I forget. My thoughts whirl like a dervish. But "His word is alive and active, sharper than any two edged sword..." So tonight I will,

Be Still.
And Know.
That He.
Is God.

Amen

The Things Women Do

Getting a manicure without getting a pedicure feels as incomplete to me as putting on your bra, but forgetting your underpants.

However, getting a pedicure without a manicure always feels much more acceptable.

You just can't leave the house without your underwear on, you know what I mean?