I’ve been thinking of writing about a view of my past, and I came upon a post written by Caroline Seidman about what was called in her southern town Cotillion. I kept thinking about it, so I decided the subject would be different than I’d been planning.
I grew up in New England. What evidently was called Cotillion elsewhere was called in my small town simply, “dance lessons.” However, the basic idea was the same. We girls wore dresses, white gloves, and our best shoes. The boys wore nice pants and shirts, sometimes even jackets. I dreaded it all week, despite my mother’s assurances that someday I’d be glad I’d “learned to dance.”
Those assurances didn’t diminish the horror of the realities of dance class day. The girls and boys lined up on opposite sides of the room. At a command from one of the pair of instructors, the boys marched across the room and chose a partner. It was as awful as choosing sides for volleyball. But at least I at volleyball had some small skill. At dancing, I had marginal skill, excessive height, and even more excessive lack of confidence. The whole experience was wonderful. Completely.
It took years to recover from those weekly crushings.
Now I take dance lessons with my husband and some friends and we have fun. After all these years, Mom has been proven right: I’m glad I’ve learned to dance!
May your 2016 be filled with things old and new, and may they bring you joy.