Sometimes, their reveries are interrupted by each others' questions ("Who was that girl at the prom with the crazy dress?") but this year, while looking through my copy, I did the interrupting. I had stumbled on a slang term I'd never heard before.
"What's a 'starter kit'?" I asked my seniors.
"It's the things that make you, you," replies one of my most laid-back seniors, a tall gentleman who would continually enter my classroom with a lazy "Hey girl" to me, despite my repeated suggestions that he discontinue the practice. "Like yours, Ms. P? Yours would definitely have a giant Starbucks green iced tea," he replied.
"A copy of The Great Gatsby, obviously," his friend intoned.
"Dance stuff," chimed in another.
"High heels, French manicures and makeup," from a senior who, perplexingly, slept through most of my classes. Guess she had one eye open for fashion.
"Pretty stationery and good pens," piped in a blonde girl.
And it was enlightening, to see the way kids saw the pieces of what "made" me, me. The little necessary outward things that defined who I am, or at the very least, who they thought I was. It made me think: what are the things that truly make me, me? That make me feel alive? That intrinsically make me feel grounded, yet light?
There are so many things I love to do: spending time with my kids is at the top of the list. But being a mom is draining, and sometimes my "mom" definition simply isn't enough. I am not a better mom when I don't have time to dance, read, put on some lipstick and write a long-overdue thank-you. And sometimes those pieces get lost, because I am busy "putting the kids first," or feeling supremely guilty if I don't! For example, I love to dance, and while I have been teaching it non-stop for the last 22 years at Austin, I rarely get to an actual class for myself. Lots of my inspiration comes from videos that I watch on my iPad late at night, or from organic choreography sessions with my seniors. My personal dance has been limited, and I realized it was making me sad to lose that part of myself. This summer, I vow to take my 44-year-old self to class, and to reclaim a part of me that has long since been asleep.
Let's hope Tylenol and muscle relaxers don't become part of my new starter kit.
(UPDATE August 10: I have made it to nearly two weeks of classes. My flexibility is a faint shadow of itself, yet I love every minute of my class. There are some familiar faces and some fun new connections. The choreography is as cool as ever. And I? I am loving my time being myself again.)
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