I thought I would be further along by now. I thought the dreams of my youth would be fulfilled.
My dreams were lofty: I wanted to understand the internal combustion engine. I used to change the oil and filter on my car, but things have gotten crowded and complicated under the hood. I just learned how to fold in both side mirrors. You’re probably thinking that’s happened to you with your new car? My car is a 2013. It’s loaded with “city driving” features that allow the driver to rein in those mirrors while squeezing into a tight city parking spot. I used it once, while driving through a flock of slow-moving turkey buzzards.
Then there was my lifelong dream of finding 10 women that loved themselves just the way they were — no ifs, ands, or buts. I think I was inspired while listening to that Billy Joel song, Just The Way You Are. One of those songs that sticks in your head because it’s so bad.
“Don't go trying some new fashion
Don't change the color of your hair, mmm
You always have my unspoken passion
Although I might not seem to care
I don't want clever conversation
I never want to work that hard, mmm
I just want someone that I can talk to
I want you just the way you are.”
What a load of hooey.
I came close to fulfilling this dream when I met Marge, but then she said, “But I need to lose six and half pounds.” Cindy came even closer, but she found her loathing for her large ears disqualified her from true self-love. I was in the running, but there was that glaring deficit: I didn’t understand the internal combustion engine.
But perhaps my biggest letdown was not fulfilling my most fervent dream.
I wanted to learn to dance the paso doble. That sexy Spanish or Latin American dance, with its hand gestures, was so seductive. It sure beat the polka that I saw danced to or stomped to at the polka festivals in New Ulm, Minnesota. Those annual festivals were held right up the road from the Schmidt Brewing company. Where I grew up, polka bands were prolific, and few were more prolific than Whoopee John Wilfahrt and his band. At the start of every Polka fest the MC would announce: “Whoopee John Wilfahrt and his band will play.” The crowd laughed between bites of sauerkraut.
But I was drawn to a dance that originated in the bull ring, not the beer hall. I believed Latin, not German, blood ran through my veins. I dreamed of flicking my hands and skirt to the dramatic paso doble. I tried a few moves with a college friend, and we nearly knocked each other out. We probably should have worn safety glasses, since I poked her in the eye twice.
I confessed these dashed dreams to my husband. He pointed out that I was doing a lot of confessing for someone who wasn’t Catholic. I suggested he might be the man to fulfill my dreams; together we might learn the paso doble? He’s very competitive so I tried another angle: We might win a contest and earn a title? He reminded me that he’s “rhythm-impaired.” It’s not an official diagnostic code, but the inability to feel the rhythm. Any rhythm. Even in a polka. He claims to be German, but I wonder. I offered a cure: “Darling, practice the paso doble with me.” He refused.
I’ll have to settle for the Dutch Hop, the dance my German-Russian ancestors brought here from the Volga. It’s in my DNA. Dutch is a mispronunciation of the German word “Deutsch.” The German brand had taken a beating after two world wars, and my exacting ancestors took advantage of this mispronunciation and let it slide. That may be the only time in history that my German ancestors let anything slide.
When I shared my dreams with a much younger friend, she seemed surprised that those of us on Medicare still strive to understand complicated mechanical things, still yearn to bust some new moves, still work daily to love ourselves just the way we are.
I release myself from the strain of trying to fulfill all my dreams. Maybe in another life I’ll dance the paso doble? Maybe at 80? For now, I’ll settle for this title: Perfecter of the Dutch Hop.