Musings of a Mature Belly Dancer

My dance experience begins at the tender age of four. My mother enrolled me in a ballet class. I spent an hour a week pirouetting and spinning. There was a recital at the end of the year – my first and last public appearance as a dancer for decades. 

Imagine a line of a dozen four and five-year-olds in leotards and tutus attempting to dance together, or trying to dance at all. Perhaps you have suffered through the spectator experience. It can be long and wearying; the doors of the auditorium padlocked or protected by stern-looking parents should you wish to sneak out following your favorite star’s performance.  

My mother does not tire of regaling folks with the sad tale of my recital. I do not remember anything about the dance classes or the show. 

The bottom line: Mom laughed so hard during the performance she peed in her pants. Need I say more? Needless to say, dance lessons were put on hold for another couple of decades. 

My infatuation with belly dancing began in my twenties. I was looking for a fun exercise class (is that an oxymoron?) Belly dancing looked like fun. And it was. We pranced around the gym, swaying, shimmying, moving our bodies, enjoying ourselves. We fashioned homemade costumes to make the experience more authentic. Belly dancing was just beginning to be popular. Few retail outlets for costumes existed. 

Life eventually got in the way and belly dancing lost out. Children, work, family, my dance teacher divorced and moved away. Dancing was tossed aside for an occasional aerobics or other exercise class. 

Fast-forward three decades. A friend of mine was taking belly dancing and urged me to join her class. As my body aged and the moans, groans, and morning stiffness set in, I knew something had to be done.

I renewed my love of the dance. I learned to shimmy again and isolate buried body parts. My waist was well hidden behind lumps of fat composed of consumed French fries and burgers, Starbucks Frappuccinos, chocolate ice cream…etc. But it didn’t matter. The music played and I whirled around the room.

When I relocated, one of the first things I did was find a belly dance class. The experience began as an enjoyable exercise class, then morphed into a group of occasional performers. I am not quite sure how it happened. We performed at the end of the year in the school’s recital. I did not know anyone in town, so had no qualms about dancing. I could make a fool of myself and nobody (who knew me) would know.

Then a couple of ‘gigs’ came along. My instructor was asked to dance along with her students – now her troupe – at an assisted living center. The folks enjoyed the entertainment. I don’t think they cared that I did not have the tall, slim, sexy, young, smooth, taut body of a ‘real’ dancer. I am short, round, soft (OK, maybe flabby is the right word), not wrinkle-free, with a mature figure more adaptable to being a grandmother of five than a dancer of any kind.

Today retail outlets and online stores offer a variety of costumes. Traditional belly dance outfits are revealing, but I strategically cover much of my body. I love veil dances – the veil can be draped over the body to conceal a multitude of sins (brownies, chocolate chip cookies, those Starbucks drinks, etc.).

And then…once again my instructor left town and left me a belly dance-wannabee. 

But I think the dancing gods are subtly telling me it is time to move on. It may be time to try a different dance class. 

Definitely not ballet…