Ever since Michelle Obama appeared on The Tonight Show and performed the dance number ‘Evolution of Mom Dancing,’ I have been reflecting on my relationship with dancing. It started in the late ’70s at the Mississippi River Festival, where bands like Loggins & Messina and Poco played in front of thousands of kids listening and dancing on a hillside without a care in the world.
All you needed to do was move your hips without spilling your beer, and you were considered a good dancer. Then John Travolta ruined it all with Saturday Night Fever. All of a sudden we were expected to know right from left, move in unison, and twirl without stumbling—all difficult for someone who sometimes trips when she walks. I sat out most of the disco years scowling.
My dancing then became limited to the obligatory numbers at family weddings. When the band plays We Are Family, the entire Fitzgerald clan, all of whom share my level of grace, heads to the dance floor just to make sure everyone else knows we ‘own it.’ I’m pretty sure people think we are filming a commercial for future hip and knee replacements.
So why did the Michelle Obama dance hit such a nerve? Probably because my son is getting married and there will be a moment when all eyes will be on us for the mother-son dance. These days every wedding party puts together some sort of elaborate dance routine, but that would have required years of dance lessons for me. And honestly, other than this one occasion, I am happy spinning around in my own little world.
My son, Jack, and I will be dancing to Dionne Warwick’s ‘Do You Know the Way to San Jose.’ I know it’s not a standard mother/son song, but we wanted a song that reflected the kind of mother I was: one who never bothered to learn lullabies. When the kids were young, I knew the lyrics to exactly two songs: this one and ‘Matchmaker’ from Fiddler on the Roof. So my son and daughter were rocked to sleep listening to ruminations about what their mother’s future might hold once she figured out how to get to San Jose. Naturally, when it came time to pick a song for this happy occasion, we all agreed this was ‘our song.’
So in June, the mother-son dance will perplex the guests, but leave me a crying mess. I suspect this fixation with dance is my way of dealing with Jack getting married. A therapist reading this might say, “No, you idiot, it is about your evolution as a mom.” But I don’t have time for self-reflection when I need to get ready for leading my old college pals in some oldies but goodies from Earth, Wind and Fire. And there’s no way I’m going to miss doing that, despite any issues around middle-aged dancing.
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