Jazz hands and ceiling fans do not mix

I’m helping at a performing arts camp this week; it’s so fun to watch 70 eight-to-eighteen year olds dance, sing and act. My job has nothing to do with those things, of course – I’m not what you’d call artistically talented. I set out the name tags, check kids in, talk with parents, hand out Band-Aids. I’m the camp mom. So why I thought I could learn the choreography for one of the groups is beyond me.

On Monday, I heard a song from the musical Wicked (Best. Musical. Ever.) coming from the choreography room. I peeked in and realized one of the groups was learning a dance to the song, “One Short Day.” Fun song, fun kids – I thought I should give it a try.

I caught on pretty fast. I got all the steps down and thought, “I’ve got this!”

Then the director turned on the music.

The moves that took us five minutes to work through were put to 20 seconds of music. How in the world was I supposed to keep up?

Quitting seemed to be the wisest course of action, but I was slightly delusions from all the spinning; I was convinced I could figure it out. So I kept going. But I just kept getting further and further behind as the director added step after step after step.

I am a 43 year old woman with no dance training. Tap lessons in 1977 do not count. What the heck was I thinking?

Determined to go back on Tuesday with the moves down, I practiced in the family room on Monday night. One of the moves requires you to raise your hands above your head in a double-rainbow fashion. You’re supposed to do it fast. Amy was watching me and not laughing, which was very kind of her. However, when I did the double-rainbow hands, I smacked the metal chains hanging from the brand new ceiling fan we just had installed. One of the chains flew up into the glass light and the other wrapped itself around one of the blades. How in the world my fingers were not all broken is beyond me.

At this point, all the laughter Amy had held in came out and she died laughing. And I couldn’t help but laugh when she showed me her impression of me doing my “dance.”

I think I’ll leave the dancing, acting and singing to the kids for the rest of the week. They have their place, and I have mine.

Band-Aid, anyone?