Breasts in a Dance Class

Participating in an impromptu strip club

Have you ever been flashed by a dance teacher? I have.

I used to take a spiritual dance class at the YMCA. It was super hippy-dippy. It’s one of those classes you either become obsessed with or you run like hell from. If it were a cult, I would have joined it.

I loved the age group which ranged from 24 to 80. The men that were there were the same men you see in yoga. Youngish. Mellow. Fit. Bendy.

The workout gear ranged from Adidas sweatsuits to bootie shorts and tube tops. If you looked into the window of the class, you’d have no idea what you were looking at.

Our teacher, Gretchen, was an ex-dancer. She had great big bouncy boobs and danced in a tube top without a bra, which was amazing because she was 60. We were her minions. She had mastered joie de vivre. Whatever was in Gretchen’s Kool-Aid, we wanted it. We talked about her behind her back but in a good way.

Did you see what Gretchen was wearing today? She looks so pretty. I wonder what music she’s playing today. Did she tell you she was going to Bora Bora for vacation? I saw her with her daughter on the street. They both waved at me. Have you seen her husband? He’s adorable.

Most of the women in the class were there to loosen their joints. I was there to leap across the room like an untapped ballerina. I’d never danced anywhere but clubs, school dances, and weddings. I’d once tried adult ballet class but it made me feel like I had cement feet and I was en route to swim with the fishes. Adult ballet for beginners was not for me.

Gretchen’s joints were Slinkies. She sprung across the room like the floor was a trampoline. She demanded nothing from us but unbridled joy. Though she taught us steps, we all interpreted them differently.

Some women swayed back and forth, their legs barely leaving the floor but their arms wildly flinging through the air. Some leaped across the room like deer racing through the forest, unhindered by instructions. One woman sat in a chair and moved her head around in circles, eyes closed. I danced like it was my last chance on Broadway.

Gretchen was explosive. She moved when she wasn’t moving. When she stopped to talk to us outside, her legs never stop bouncing or kicking or stretching. She had so much to give us and we were baby birds, hearts wide open.

Gretchen doled out wisdom while she led the dance like it was gushing out of her pores — dance was her on-switch. She managed to have conversations with us about their families, jobs, and aspirations while we shimmied through the room. She remembered our pets, siblings and lovers names.

One day, while showing us how to roll our shoulders like Spanish dancers, her boobs fell out of her tube top. More like lept. They were magnificent. We kept dancing. So did she.

You know those moments when you’re out to dinner with someone and you notice spinach between their teeth when they’re feverishly telling you a story? You want to interrupt and say, Stop talking. I can’t concentrate on your story until you remove the spinach from your teeth. I’m not even listening because I’m so distracted by that spinach.

Imagine if there are boobs between their teeth.

We waited a little longer than we should of because we were in shock. Had her boobs really lept out of her top? This was the YMCA for God’s sake. On the other hand, we all were women, mostly.

Most of us had breasts too so, while the sudden appearance of boobies was shocking, it wasn’t like an alien popped out of her torso. She kept dancing. We kept dancing, eyes locked onto her breasts. Did she know? When was too long to say something? Finally, after either 30 seconds or 15 minutes, a few of us yelled out Gretchen, your boobs.

She laughed and shoved them back in like she’d dropped her cellphone and was sliding it back into her pocket.

Well, that happened today, she said. We all laughed, relieved.

I can’t wait till my husband asks me how work went today! She said, still laughing, adjusting her tube top.

Oh, I wouldn’t tell him, said one of the older ladies, who was well covered in a long sleeve shirt, a short-sleeved shirt, and a pair of thick pink sweatpants.

Gretchen was hysterical. He knows who I am, she said, never stopping the dance.

The many-shirted woman stopped. She said What the hell, ripped off the top short sleeve shirt and flung it across the room. We all laughed harder, tears coming out of our eyes. A contagion.

Then the rest of us started ripping off our shirts. Most of us were wearing sports bras underneath so it wasn’t nudity as much as camaraderie. A couple of women had bras on, so that was funny. The two guys in the class took off their tops which made us all laugh harder. No boobs.

Boobs appeared and then disappeared that day, a sliver of time in my life, a microcosm of all my other memories. A wink. On the other hand, it happened ten years ago and I remember it like it happened this morning. Who doesn’t like a happy ending?

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