When I was three, I could perform the "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" song.
When I was four, I could position my feet behind my head.
When I was six, I could swirl my hips and send a Hula Hoop spinning.
When I was seven, I could pat my head and rub my tummy.
By the time I was 33, I had trouble doing jumping jacks.
By 35, I couldn't learn how to do the Electric Slide.
By 40, I couldn't touch my hands to the floor.
Cuz, I'm 55
and I've been revived.
And, nobody has told the little girl in me, whom I've recently discovered is still very much alive, that she can't.
Nobody, that is, until I took a hula class earlier this month, then my own critical voice starting blaring: "Who do you think your are? Are you crazy?"
The first time I saw hula danced it was at the ocean's edge at the beach near my home. There was a man turned toward the horizon, his legs moving like the waves of the ocean, his hands motioning in prayer. I was mesmerized. This was nothing like the hula depicted in Elvis Presley movies.
This was praise. This was prayer. This was love in liquid motion. I want to learn how to move like that! I went home and put "Learn to hula" on my "Things I Want To Do Before I Die" list.
Now, 15 months later, I'm embarking on lessons. In four months, I want to be able to hula for my hubby. Even if its only a three-minute hula. Buddy is thrilled. I am humbled.
My Writing Sister, Salle, who also hulas, recently emailed me to ask how did I feel while dancing. I wrote back: "To my dismay my hips won't sway."
Yet.
Stay tuned!
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