Don't Quit Your Day Job

I'm not going to lie, I've got a pretty good gig here at Patch. But the economy is still unpredictable, so being a sensible guy, I decided to prepare for a "just-in-case” career. You know, a sure thing that's recession proof.

I wanted to pursue something reliable and profitable that wouldn't require me having to physically exert myself or stand for too long. The choice was clear: I would become a professional dancer.

How to begin? I could run away to New York City with a few dollars in my pocket, live in poverty for a few years until I found someone stupid enough to believe in me. No, I didn't have that kind of time! Rhode Island's bad economy could strike at any moment!

With time of the essence, I chose the Seekonk YMCA over the Big Apple. It just so happens that it serves the East Providence area and offers Zumba classes every Thursday night at 6:15.

Zumba is a dance-centered aerobic workout that combines Latin-inspired choreography to maximize cardio and overall sexiness. It was the perfect way to dip my eager feet into the pond of dance.

In my Spanx for Men undershirt, I ambled to the back of the gymnasium like a good first-timer. I’d master the steps in an hour and be well on my way to raking in easy money as an artiste.

That’s when reality paid me a visit. Apparently, I can’t dance. Oh, and it seems I’m delusional, too. You see, I thought that years of dancing around my room with a hairbrush to the Immaculate Collection had endowed me with the chops to dance my way into wild, wild riches.

Not true. Dancing requires having one’s act together, along with serious sweat. Why the community bulletin board at the Seekonk YMCA didn’t advertise this, I’ll never know.

My two left feet provided me with a healthy dose of humility. When the class went right, I went left. When we danced a 360 degree move, I panicked, afraid of how I would appear to the rest of the class.

While my fellow Zumba-ists (all women) effortlessly glided to instructor Karen Kasper’s directions, I neurotically studied her feet. Glide to the right, glide to the left. Step, step one, step, step two. Cross over, step to the front. It didn’t matter. The instructor could have attached marionette strings to my limbs and I still would have danced like a robot in leg braces.

My dance-related incompetence wasn’t just hard on me. Because being bad at something means you take up more room than everyone else. I found myself unknowingly infringing on my neighboring dancer’s space. My thrusting hips almost sent the poor woman next to me out of orbit, past Pluto and into a different galaxy. Thankfully, she was an understanding sort.

To be fair, the problem wasn’t Zumba or the class. Karen was amazing and generous. It was obvious she designed the class to welcome everyone’s abilities, even for people like me who are clearly missing a dance gene.

With the "let's slow it down" phase delivered by Karen, parts of my tattered ego were restored through effective stretching. (Apparently, I am a very good stretcher, thank you.) When the class wrapped up, a few women said things like “Wow, you did great.” Um, what?

Karen echoed the same sentiments. “A lot of these women have been coming for a long time. If you come as long as they have, you’ll be just as good!”

That’s I when I realized that even though I found myself back at the beginning of my search for a “just-in-case” career, I learned what this whole group class thing was all about.

No one there, short of the magnificent Karen, was a professional. They were all trying something new, getting out of their comfort zones and feeling good themselves in the process.

It didn’t matter that I didn’t do it perfectly. What mattered is that I stuck it out and put in the effort. And even though my dreams of becoming the next overpaid dancing hooligan on a national TV commercial was reduced to a puddle of man-boy tears, I actually felt pretty good when I left.

So, my Spanx have been hung in the Hall of Shame, and I’m still sitting pretty as a keyboard warrior. My eye, however, is still scanning for that Plan B job. You know, just in case.