Grace and Balance–No Dignity

As a rule, I don’t think the Morrison’s are especially graceful. I can’t exactly speak for my entire extended family, but really, none of them strikes me as professional dancer material.

Of my immediate family, my sister Jenny and my mother probably possess the most natural grace and balance, though my mother would probably argue that she doesn’t think of herself in quite that light. My father, my sister Emily and me…well, we’re pretty bad.

My Dad played football, and for sheer brute athleticism and determination, I suspect he was a fine and strong athlete. But I think he will agree that a lack of grace, balance and coordination probably kept him off the basketball team and from ever being the superstar player of his heart’s dreams.

For myself…I was in the Drama Club. My juvenile attempt at soccer was a comedy of daydreaming, fumbling and kicking the ball in the wrong direction. People started running around me and I became instantly confused. The only logical reaction to all that running and screaming was to fall down or stare off in another direction.

I fell down. A lot. And I still do. I fall going up stairs and going down stairs. I fall while standing still. I fell down a flight of concrete stairs once and twisted BOTH of my ankles at the same time.

I was cast in the play Grease my Freshman year of college. I’m convinced that Tanya’s father cast me in that show for two reasons: I could sing and I was louder than anybody else in the whole theater. Unfortunately, there was dancing. I thought I’d dodged the dancing bullet by being cast as the principal–unfortunately that did not turn out to be the case because the principal has to dance with the host of Prom–a dance that while funny, required me to twist and twirl and be guided around the floor by a big, sweet doofus of a guy named Pat.

I fell. Or rather, Pat twirled me so hard that I flew across the floor and then fell, skinning the holy bejeezus out of my knee and completing the last number, the Hand Jive, with blood trickling down my leg.

My sister Emily was cursed with feet smaller than any you will ever find on an adult woman. I believe she wears a 1 1/2. She buys her shoes from Stride Rite or over the Internet and from specialty catalogues. She pays either kids prices or outlandish custom prices. And as many readers of this blog are aware, Emily’s hobbies run towards the, uhm, adult entertainment spectrum. She once lamented the expense of kick-ass Dom boots because you know, they don’t make those at Buster Brown’s.

Her little feet make balance difficult on a good day and she recently fell on some stairs, damaging her ankle in what has to have been the third of fourth such incident. This time it’s bad enough that her doctor is threatening surgery to repair torn ligaments. Youch!

And Your Point Is?

This weekend I signed up to take Pilates classes. That’s right, Pilates classes. Jennifer raves about it but then, she can walk through a room without knocking things over. I don’t know what to expect. They assure me that Pilates is appropriate for all fitness levels and because I’m starting out with a trainer, they’ll be able to tailor my workouts to my unique needs. I’m not sure they realize that my “unique needs” will likely involve walking, sitting and bending without hurting myself.

We’ve all got to start somewhere.

I’m looking forward to it, even though I’m incredibly nervous about facing my own ineptitude. If I like it, I think I’ll have found the change/addition to my workouts that will help get me over my current motivational slump. The first lesson is Wednesday night. I will let you know how it goes.

The Best Day of My Life

Today is the anniversary of the best day of my life. The day that Tanya was born. I didn’t recognize the significance at the time, being but two months old myself. But it was. See how I made Tanya’s birthday all about me? Heh.

Call her, send her an e-mail, write it across the sky!