I am in a small, hot room in the middle of winter. Although I look like I’m dressed for aerobics, the (much) older people around me look like they could be heading to the grocery store. Luke Bryan comes through the speaker, telling me what makes me “country.” Thanks, Luke, but I am really not feeling very country.
“Is it the size of your tires and your fires, or your wild-ass buddies?” Luke asks me. But I wave him off, too busy trying to get the “rocking chair” right. For the uninitiated, this means I am in a country line-dancing class. Yee haw.
I owe this adventure to my friend, Jill, who rounded up a few of us to “try something new.” Well, this is new, alright. I’ve done country line dancing a couple of times before—once at a Colorado dude ranch on a business trip and again at a couple’s wedding shower. I think I’d at least had a cocktail on those occasions. And I’d suggest having a cocktail before you try to get the rocking chair right. Otherwise, you overthink it like some city slicker.
Speaking of city slickers, that’s more my vibe. But I’m in the stage of life where I keep thinking I need to break out of my rut. Jill’s invitation came just at the right time.
Interfering with me channeling my inner Carrie Underwood is the woman to my right, who looks like she smokes a pack a day. As we tool through the moves, Luke crooning along, I begin to have some fun. The hips are swaying a bit more and my sass is starting to show. Until I realize that Suzy Smoker has edged me right out of her line. I am somehow between lines in this room—in a line completely of my own making—as if in a Solid-Gold-dancer spotlight. Oy.
I get the feeling that Suzy would like it better if the newfangled newcomers had not joined “her” line-dancing class. Or perhaps I misread her. But I don’t think so, given I am now dancing in my own line, trying not to rocking-chair right into anyone. Janet, our fearless instructor (of “Dancing with Janet” and no, I’m not kidding on that name), shouts out encouragement. Which helps, until we get to the cross shuffle and coaster combination. Then, I just wish for a cocktail. And pray no one is videotaping this class.
As luck fate would have it, I pull my Achilles tendon a few days after my foray into being a country gal. And so, I’m sidelined for about three weeks until it heals. My brave friends finish the class and a couple of them even end up at Tequila Roadhouse to give their boot-scootin’ skills a whirl. So I guess my answer to Luke’s question about what makes me country is my wild-ass buddies.
And yes, despite every ounce of sarcasm you’ve just read, I appreciate them dragging me into new adventures. I just hope the next one has more to do with a samba, some sashaying and sangria—sans my nemesis, Suzy Smoker.
Here’s to breaking out of your comfort zone this week, y’all. Find your wild-ass buddies and get to it . . .