Charcoalatte etc: Disco lights and Lularoo tights
It’s about 4:45pm. I decide that I could not possible end my 41st birthday without a dance. Random, I know. I dress up in my most attractive Zumba getup and head to campus. I have never even entered the LU gym before despite having free access to the facility. I get there and am greeted by a nice young lady. She walks me to the fitness room and I stand outside and type on my phone. An assemblage of young, white females begins to gather in the room. I avoid eye contact like any hermit would and continue typing. I am feeling very out of place and wonder if I should have worn black instead. My Lularoo pants suddenly feel like disco lights dancing around my legs. As if reading my mind, the instructor turns on red lights. Yeah this is going to be interesting. She walks over to me and introduces herself.
Instructor: You go here?
Out of place me: No, I am an adjunct professor.
Instructor: Seriously? That is so cool. Which department?
I tell her which department and she exclaims how cool the building is. I don’t tell her that my classes are held at a satellite campus. That would require too many words.
Starting to get comfortable me: You go here?
Instructor: Yeah I am a freshman.
Bless her heart. She could be my baby. She is probably only about 6 years older than my daughter.
A group of equally fit and healthy ladies join the conversation. It’s those damn leggings. You can’t hide in them. One by one they introduce themselves. The music is a bit loud so they lean in to hear my name. (What is it about the name Nadine? Southern people always seem to hear Lillian. But that's a rant for another time. Every time someone leans towards me, I curse myself for not brushing one more time before leaving the house. But at least I am not wearing socks and slippers today.
They are all students and the more I speak to them, the older I feel. They’re not only fit. They’re young! What have I gotten myself into?
Someone mentions that today is the ballerina in the crop top’s birthday and I make the mistake and tell them that its my birthday, too.
Random girl: Happy birthday! How old are you today?
Me: Guess?
Girl one: 21?
Girl two: 22?
I laugh.
Me: 41.
Mouths drop.
Girl three: OMG I wish I could look like you by the time I am that age.
She makes it sound like its so far in the future. It’s ok sweetheart, chances are that we will be nuked by the crazies or drowned by melting polar ice by then. Or maybe #45 will make plastic surgery free. Either way I wouldn’t worry about it.
The music starts and the instructor begins what looks like the most complicated dance move. Last chance to head out Nadine. I recall which body parts have been malfunctioning lately. The knee, the coccyx bone… This might not end well. But at this point, I am representing every 40 something that I know — all my schoolmates from high school and college. I got this. I stare at myself in the mirror, channel my inner Beyonce and its on.
About halfway through the class, I realize that I did not bring any water. By then sweat is streaming down my face and everything is wet — shirt, undershirt, Lularoo tights, underwear, socks. My face in the mirror is a bright pink and I am not sure if it is because of the red light or because I am about to pass out.
The song ends and the instructor warns us to get a drink. I head out to the hallway to a water fountain and I brave the flu virus and whatever microorganisms are lurking in the fountain and drink like I have been stranded in a desert. I debate leaving early and heading to the café next door but my keys are on the shelf in the fitness room. And besides, I am fighting for the honor of all 40 somethings. We’re not old. We’re gently used. And patched. And missing a few parts.
So I go back in, wring the water out of my t-shirt, adjust my boops, and join in the dance. By this time my coccyx bone is thumping with the music and I am about to start a fire with the constant rubbing of my thighs. But I will not show defeat. I am kicking my feet in the air and throwing my arms in weird gestures that I didn’t think possible.
It’s about a lifetime before a slow Josh Groban song comes on. I have never been so happy to hear Josh Groban.
I look around and nobody is sweating. They’re all dry. Are they dehydrated? What kind of deodorant do they use? Is this some kind of millennial thing I don’t know about?
The instructor tells us to hug ourselves and walk in a circle. I know the intent is to stretch out the muscles but at this point I am hugging myself because I am a bit worried that my fake boobs might fall to the floor.
Instructor: Hug yourself and stretch!
I do as she says and adjust, adjust. That’s better.
We walk around slowly as Josh croons. I pass closer to the mirror and there is my face. Beet red but looking radiant. My 41 year old heart is pumping furiously in my chest.
Instructor: Walk slowly to slow down your heart rate.
I could walk slowly from here to Indiana and my heart will still be thumping. Is there is a defibrillator in this building?
And just like that, the class comes to an end. We take deep breaths and I use my last bit of energy to clap. A girl steps forward to announce that she is graduating and wants to take a picture. The girls all huddle together. I wonder if I should just walk out but damn it its my birthday. So somewhere out there on a 21-year old’s Instagram, there is a picture of my red, round face smiling with a group of beautiful girls. Brilliant faces smiling at the camera. And me.
Now to eat cake. Good night.
