At the top of my resume, my greatest strength should read, "Mistress of Begin-Again." (Rhymes with Michael Finnegan.) I've done it more often than I have given birth, changed diapers, impersonated the Tooth Fairy, or written "Clean Out My Closets & Garage" on my To-Do Lists. This resilience is my trademark; I'm like the whiskers on Michael Finnegan's chin-again--"...pulled them out, but they grew in again..."
Today I make reference to my latest attempt at resuming physical activity after a period of inactivity: Irish dance.
At the end of May, I had the privilege of dancing on stage again* with six of my children. In addition, the two oldest were backstage: Chris with his video camera, preserving the moments on film from the wings, and Lauren, just a few weeks after graduating from college--doing her best job of bi-locating as she simultaneously supported the stage crew, ticket distributors, concession vendors, cast, and her little sister, the director.
Miss Stephanie, founder of Rebel Heart Irish Dancers in 2007, pulled off her dream of a stage show to a sellout audience. We've been part of entertainment events at the Rose Lehrman Theatre in Harrisburg before, but never as the headliners. Superstitious fears prevented us from speaking aloud our hope to fill all 400 seats, but the wishes were engraved in our veins. Miss Stephanie, my third child, independent since before she could walk, was always willing to work relentlessly in pursuit of whatever was in her sight. She let go of some of that independence by asking for help (GASP!!!) from parents of her dancers, and friends willing to lend support. She was most gracious in accepting offers of making costumes, getting publicity, keeping track of ticket and t-shirt sales, building web sites, conducting business via e-mail, and more than I could safely mention in one blog.
Suffice it to say the result was worth the combined effort of dozens of volunteers, along with the talent of nearly 50 dancers, two vocalists, and Seasons, a family of delightful musicians playing Celtic tunes. If you were fortunate enough to attend, you may have caught the contagious enthusiasm of all involved. If not, there will be future events, like the one we just got invited to by the local chapter of the Autism Society of America with less than a week's notice. But I thought this was going to be about me...
My focus for this entry was supposed to be how once again I have had to restart my fitness regimen, but my kids have contributed significantly to my ADHD problems for 25 years. They've also been my major excuse for getting off track with exercise plans.
I discovered my inner athlete at the end of senior year in college. My passion for running and martial arts blossomed in 1979, as did my identity as a physically fit woman. My wedding in October of 1984 followed my black belt test, and two weeks later, I was expecting my firstborn. I had injuries during the early stages of my athletic pursuits, but none set me back like recovering from pregnancy and childbirth.
I love raising eyebrows, but particularly by my admission that I've lost over 250 pounds. Doing the math: eight children in 16 years, 25-30 pounds gained with each pregnancy, lost when I dragged my sleep-deprived bones back into the woods for trail runs, the creek for kayaking, the gym for body-building, and my living room for the exercise video du jour. I love getting into a rhythm of training, keeping fitness logs, tracking falling numbers on race times, pants' sizes, and the bathroom scale.
I equally despised the thought of lumbering with a blobby belly and cellulite-riddled thighs out into public to get back into shape. My thin-as-a-rail husband supported my efforts at resuming training, but once I reached my goals, he'd look at me with that glimmer in his eye, and WHAM!!, another baby took up residence beneath the stretch mark-streaked abdominal flab.
Working out isn't the problem; thinking about working out is my greatest obstacle.
My youngest child is nine, but after getting back into shape after she was born, I've endured health setbacks and several surgeries, each with a period of limited activity. The year I turned 50 was one of my best for training, including winning the Female Masters' Division of a one mile race I had competed in since my early 30's. I had fought off another 40 pounds before that birthday, which helped me cross the finish line in under 7 minutes.
Four of those surgeries came in the past two years, and this has been the toughest mental battle I've fought to get in gear again.
But here I am, adding another activity to my repertoire. My youngest daughter, Teresa, taught me my first steps of Irish dance--the easy reel. When Stephanie walked in on our lesson, she got the idea that it might be time to join her adult class (as I had hinted for an invite for a long time.) Early this year, she threw me in with Alice and Barb who had danced with her for years. After only a few sessions with them, we made our debut on St. Patrick's Day at a private party in a pub. Good thing it wasn't taped and shown on YouTube, or we'd have quit. But we had a blast, and spent two months learning more steps for the stage show.
Here we were, three mature women, sharing spotlights with a group of little girls. Miss Stephanie designed complementary dresses for us to do our slip jig. We couldn't stop smiling, and the kids in the show made us feel welcome. I can't speak for Barb or Alice, but I know I didn't quite master the choreography until a few days after the performance. My own children were too focused on their own parts in the show to notice or be embarrassed by my presence, and I spent time in the wings admiring their finesse and vitality.
Tonight, I joined two other women in a new beginner class. We learned the basic steps of an easy reel. It's reminiscent of returning as a white belt after my first child was born, and my black belt had to be re-earned.
I'll be aching tomorrow, but not quite as bad as after a sparring match at the dojo. And as I do the dishes, I can expect any one of my children to come into the kitchen, and remind me how to point my toes, swing my foot to my knee, or bend my knee to kick my butt. Thanks, guys, but I'm already pretty good at kicking my own butt.
(* I've previously danced with all of my kids in The Nutcracker Ballet and Footloose.)
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