¡Hola, Señora!

... for Knots in the String.

We danced this week, the señoras and I.

Not just our normal ballet class but a performance. Two, actually. In front of a theatre filled with people.

I’ve written about this before. The perversity of me, someone who has anxiety issues, dancing on a stage in front of an audience. Every year I say, ‘Next year? Not likely!’ And every year I sign up with my friends, caught in the slip stream of their enthusiasm. This is Year 3.

And to be fair, until the last couple of weeks before a concert, I enjoy every moment of learning and honing that choreography. Of tasting the music and seeing our costumes come together. I revel in the Tuesday mornings – all morning in the studio and coming home tired mentally and physically, but always contented and always on a bit of a high.

But then I come down to earth with a bang as the countdown begins.

From the 7^th day – checking the costume, the makeup supplies, practicing in the lounge room, the garden, on the beach and telling myself every time, ‘I know this routine. I do!’

But making a mistake once, twice and kicking myself.

Then practicing until I get it right and hoping to the stars, I don’t forget it on the day.

We are a group of Seniors – five of us, myself included, are septuagenarians. The rest of the corps – 8 others, are sexuagenarians. (Probably apt given there’s a level of smoulder and smile required.) We’re fully aware that 2 minutes and 30 seconds is a rare chance to be provocative and coquettishly stimulating at our age.

The third last day, I’m fortunate to attend the dress rehearsals of all the other groups at the theatre. Apart from being happy to watch the other acts, I feel nothing. It’s as though there’s a wall between me and the stage, my brain not acknowledging that I’ll be there in a couple of days, although I do spot the centre X that I must aim for and note the third fly from where I will lead six of the women forward.

By the second last day, my costume is steamed, leotard washed, lacy hip scarf folded and the red flower for my hair stashed with the paraphernalia we need – makeup, hairspray, hairpins, earrings and so forth. Ballet shoes are cleaned and my bag for the day semi-packed. Teabags, glucose jellybeans, analgesics, ankle wrap, knee wrap in case of injury. (We are talking about a septuagenarian here, don’t forget and I wonder if I should add in the defibrillator we own!)

The final day before the performance is spent in the studios having the official pics taken. A bit of fun and good to see the gang before the mayhem of the next day. Except that in my case, there’s something in the very high energy of the studio that sets my guts seething, and I desperately crave peace.

The day of the concert is an early start. Up at 6.30 AM to make sure I am on the road to the theatre by 7.30AM. Our dress rehearsal is always on the day and v. early in the morning. I do makeup and hair at home where I don’t have to beg for mirror space, and I can dot the I’s and cross the T’s in peace.

At the theatre it’s quite calm, not many folk around, and so I deliver the home bakes for the cake stall, go the Green Room, chat to the girls as I slip into my costume and shoes. Spray the hair one last time and shake my head to make sure the red rose doesn’t move.

My group walk behind the backdrop and we wait for our music, and then the dress rehearsal begins. It’s a time to perfect placings because we’re in a bigger space. A time to practice spotting the dress circle and smiling.

A few adjustments and with just one run through, we’re shocked to find that we’re done and that what will be will be. One run through! (But we practice on our own anyway, in a hallway.)

Remember though, we are señoras and it’s time for us to sit, rest, have tea or coffee and chat, whilst all around children fizz and bubble with excitement, casting glitter, bits of tulle and feathers in all directions. But I see the moments ticking remorselessly on the clock, my stomach flutters and I’m forever rushing to the loo to pee!

The word comes to file to the stage, and I lead my half of the group behind the backdrop to Stage Left, waving at the other half a 100 miles away, on the other side of the stage. Poppy finishes her beautiful point performance of The Swan, and the stage fades to black.

With a click of castinets our music begins, the lighting soars. Ant Middleton’s words fly through my head. I recall him saying on SAS Australia that we must harness the fear and use it as a propellant. He shouts ‘MOOOOVE!’

And so I do…

Music?

This…

Postcript:

We received cheers and whistles and ovations after each performance and after the finale, the director of the school asked us to take our own curtsy in front of the audience which was really rather special.

And now all over for another year.

Will I do it again? We’ll see.

Depends on a few things, not least my family. But also, my body must stand up and be counted, my nerves must regird, the music choice has to be something I relate to, and Catharine has to be our mentor.  She has a way of pulling our best from deep down inside us.

It’s a fine art.