Gitte is fine. She’s over 40, just like me, but she knows where to go to dance. On TV. She doesn’t even need a cowboy as a man, she gets one put in front of her feet. His name is Gennady Bondarenko and he could be her son – if she had given birth to him as a late primiparous woman. He’s also famous, about as famous as singer Mandy Capristo, 21, or “DSDS” third Ardian Bujupi, 20.
How do I know all this? For a number of years I’ve had a lot of time in the evenings for TV trash like “Let’s Dance”, which is partly due to the fact that I no longer go dancing myself, but only watch other people do it.
Rhythmic foot movements have been part of my life for decades. I wasn’t after complicated twists and the silver pin from the Dance Teachers’ Association. Unless I needed an excuse to order a diet coke from the blond, moustached barman at the Fritz dance school. Dancing was an expression of an attitude to life , an outlet for drama, love, madness: swinging hips, throwing hands in the air and loudly blaring “I will survive!”. Especially when Rolf from 11b hadn’t called for three days.
Between 20 and 30 we only hummed along with the lyrics during après-ski in Saalbach-Hinterglemm and rocked sparingly to drum’n’bass and trip-hop. After all: We still wobbled.
Sometime in the 90 ‘s, during a week in New York, I noticed a woman in a live club: small, plump, probably over 50. She had taken off her shoes and was swinging absentmindedly. I thought: That’s how I want to be when I grow up. Just don’t stop dancing. It turned out differently.
Dancing in New York
It’s not my husband’s fault. He’s a self-confessed non-dancer and only made a five-minute exception at our wedding party (the next one is at our daughter’s wedding). But have I ever needed a man to dance to? No.
The problem is the locations. At the door of cool clubs , people ask me if I’m looking for my teenage children (whom I don’t have yet). Wherever my in-laws go, I would have to do two standard and three Latin courses beforehand in order not to embarrass myself. I could sing along to the “Mantra Dance” in the yoga center like I used to, but “Oh Shanti” doesn’t belt out as well as “I’m too sexy for my shirt ” . Only the children
‘s dancing remains. Henri, 3, me and the other children jump in circles and gasp “Here comes the singing kangaroo!”. The dads behind the glass hall door have at least as much fun as with an entire season of “Let’s Dance”. But: For some time now there has been hope again. My hope is Helen, she’s six and a half and she likes Peter Fox and Adele. There can still be something out there. Sometimes we rock through the living room and she sings: “I have 20 children, my wife is beautiful”.
When I’m in my mid-50s, she’ll be in the best age to go out. I’ve made up my mind to give her a trip to New York. With one requirement: find a cool live club on the Lower East Side with Mom. There I will take off my shoes and dance all night. Tough for Helen, but she has to go through it. Don’t come on TV.
