Decades Later

When my husband Al died, my doctor prescribed some sort of anti-anxiety medication for me. I never took the pills back then. My grief, along with its accompanying disorientation and dread,  seemed like "normal" reactions to his absence from my life. I wanted to experience them, painful as they were.

But just in case, I filled the script and put the bottle in my medicine cabinet. There it stayed on the glass shelf, half-forgotten, beside the over-the-counter aids for headaches, colds, and upset stomachs. Every once in a while I'd glimpse it and wonder what it was. I'd assume it was one of Al's medications that I'd missed when I had purged the shelves after he died. But when I took it down, I'd be surprised to read my name on the label, and back it would go behind the mirrored door.

The little white pills remained long after their expiration date had passed. They were my insurance policy against some debilitating feelings that just might overwhelm me in the coming years. Some widows who had remained single told me their third year was worse than their first two. Some  cited their fourth or fifth. Some said every year was just as bad, so I didn't know what to expect.

I reached for one of those pills when, after nearly five years of widowhood, I accepted David's invitation to go swing dancing. That's how nervous I was. Many emotions stressed me at the prospect of my first date in decades, but somehow the thought of my trying to dance after all of my danceless years trumped my other fears and inhibitions.

If our first date had been a dinner, I don't think I would have been so scared. For one thing, I would have expected to be seated throughout most of the evening,  observing as much as I was being observed. The worst that could have happened was some awkward silence or maybe spilling some wine or missing my mouth with my fork.

But all that would have been private--embarrassing, yes--but contained within our table for two. Whereas going to a dance put me in a public space. I'd have to perform. And as I've mentioned, I didn't know how to dance. I imagined all eyes on me as I stumbled and clomped. My teen-aged self cried, everyone will laugh at me!

What I didn't know then was that no one would really care. They came for their own reasons. The new dancers like me were risking their shaky self-esteem to learn a whole new way of movement. The social dancers were too focused on following or leading their partners to judge others. And the competitive dancers were into practicing their routines.

The huge dance space in the Elk's Club in Albany, NY was packed when we got there. The lesson that preceded the dance was just about to begin. The dancers made a double circle--men on the outside and women facing them on the inside. They ranged from college age to old age and everything in between. A twenty-something man in a pork pie hat began by instructing us on the proper hand clasp for swing dancing. It really was a beginner's lesson. I was introduced to slow counts and quick counts, front steps and back steps, and dancing down low.

After each set of instructions, the outer circle of women revolved to practice with a new partner. Some of the men were experienced and some not at all. Despite the ineffectualness of the long- expired pill, I began to relax. There was a spirit of camaraderie that pervaded almost everyone. A few grumpy partners didn't bother me, as I would have thought they might. I even found myself consoling a couple of apologetic men with two left feet.

I was surprised to find that my years of watching American Bandstand and practicing with my girlfriends or alone with the hallway banister had somehow made a home in my body. After all these years, what I once knew about dancing, without ever knowing I knew it, came back to life.