I Could Have Danced

School counselors and psychologists remind us (sometimes ad nauseam) of the pitfalls of being thirteen and fourteen. Hormones rage; moods swing; body and mind vacillate between child and adult. I rise above the psychological ‘mumbo-jumbo’ to explain my anguish as a high school freshman.

My initial evaluation as academically weak was neither harmful nor debilitating. Math and English were not my nemeses. It  was  Physical Education (PE).  PE was set up thus:  In a given period Monday and Wednesday girls met for general exercise.  On Tuesday and Thursday boys met for same.  Friday both came together for folk dancing lessons and practice.

I did not like PE. I hated PE.  Not because of the activity. I hated being the only girl in thirty who dressed out in long jeans instead of shorts.  Mommie and Daddy forbade me to wear shorts. Indecent they said.  I hated spending Fridays in a side room studying sports rules while sixty boys and girls danced. Sinful they said.  I hated being the strange girl who could not wear shorts or dance.

Had I not been driven to learn—had I not been driven to go places,  to meet people, to have experiences beyond my small smug community I would have given up. I survived – but to this day (at nearly eighty years old) I resent the missed dancing. My bucket list includes dancing lessons.