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By Nancy Crochiere

Nobody puts Baby in a corner.

Me, though? I’m good in a corner. In fact, when dancing is involved, people feel safer if I’m tucked away somewhere. Or better yet, cordoned off.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to dance. Much like I love to sing—with a great deal of enthusiasm and no discernable talent. And while I could take lessons in ballroom or swing or even Irish step dancing, I’ve found no classes that teach you to move like that woman in Flashdance. Or, you know, look that good in a ripped sweatshirt.

Dancing is on my mind right now because my younger daughter is getting married this summer. I’ve returned to Zumba class to help me prepare. I figure Zumba will at least put me in the right headspace, though whether the rest of my body follows is—let’s face it—a crap shoot.

My first time back in the Zumba studio, I’ve dress in black and hover near the rear of the class, hoping to blend in with the hanging exercise mats. The eagle-eyed instructor immediately outs me.

“Woman slinking around the perimeter,” she calls out. “Have you done Zumba before?”

Me? I pantomime, before admitting: “A really long time ago.”

“Great. You’ll be fine.” She zips over to cue up the Meghan Trainor.

“Really long,” I repeat to no one.

A spandex-clad young woman in the front row turns around to assure me she is “in the same boat.” I appreciate the gesture, but the woman can’t be more than 25 years old. Not my boat at all.

The music starts, and the instructor opens with a “grapevine left”—a simple lateral move. Easy, right?

Sadly, no. Here’s something I didn’t mention before.

I am directionally dyslexic. If someone tells me “turn left,” about half the time I go right. My family realized years ago that verbal cues are useless. They’ve developed their own adaptations.

For instance, when I recently drove to a dress fitting with my daughter, we came to a fork in the road where Siri told me to go left, and I began to veer right. My daughter knew just what to do. She raised both arms overhead and flung them repeatedly in my direction, like one of those airport workers guiding in a plane—especially one who doesn’t trust the pilot a great deal. I swerved hard, and although we clipped the curb and my daughter shrieked—this was over-the-top, in my opinion; we got very little air—we landed not only on the correct road, but facing in the right direction. Win-win.

Afterward, as my daughter still clung to the door handle, I thanked her for the helpful arm flinging.

“Yes,” she replied, with more sarcasm than I appreciate from someone I’ve gestated, “if only there was a simple word that could convey the same thing!”

Unfortunately, in the Zumba class, they use words. I need to land this plane on my own.

Which is tough, given the instructor is now pivoting the grapevine in every conceivable direction. True to form, I repeatedly choose wrong, hip-checking the elderly gentlemen next to me. I’d chosen the spot near this man thinking surely I could out-salsa an octogenarian in a terrycloth headband and knee brace. Not so! The guy can shoulder-shimmy like nobody’s business. On my body, nothing shimmies. Occasionally, I do some impressive shaking…albeit mostly on winter mornings while taking out the compost.

After an hour of Zumba class, though, I truly believe I’m catching on. I can cha-cha. I can mambo. I can merengue march. (Well, as long as you’re not too particular about the merengue part.)

At home, I show my daughter my new moves. What does she think? Am I ready for her wedding?

She pauses for a long time before offering, “If only there was a word to convey this.”

And to think, I didn’t even show her the part where I get air.

—Nancy Crochiere

Nancy Crochiere’s comic debut novel, Graceland (HarperCollins, May 2023), about a mother-daughter grandmother road trip to Memphis, was an Amazon bestseller and named a top summer read by Parade, Woman’s World, and Deep South Magazines. Her essays have appeared in The Boston Globe, Writer’s Digest, and WBUR’s Cognoscenti. Prior to writing fiction, Nancy was a humor columnist for Massachusetts’ newspapers for thirteen years and collected her best-loved columns into The Mother Load. With her children now grown, Nancy resides in Amesbury with her husband and a few houseplants that could use more attention. In her spare time, she acts as an extra in TV shows and feature films—anything to increase her odds of bumping into George Clooney.