One of the joys of retirement is that one can do things just
for fun. Top performance is not necessary. One is no longer acting to please
the world but rather oneself. To be sure, one can do a volunteer job after
retirement that calls for competence and responsibility, and very satisfying it
is too. One begins to feel, however, that part-time performance is quite
enough. One wants to spend time pursuing a hobby, developing a new interest or
just enjoying an activity during what used to be working hours.
I knew that writing would continue to be a vital area of my
life after retirement, but according to my own schedule; deadlines were out. I
also had a stimulating volunteer job in which I learned many skills in an
entirely new area. When it came time to leave it, I wanted to continue learning
new skills but increasingly just wanted to have a good time. My puritanical
background balked at this, but it was impossible to ignore. So in addition to
taking painting lessons – new skills! – I decided to take a dance class.
Perhaps I was harking back to my childhood, when I
desperately
wanted to join a ballet class, but dancing was frowned upon by my
parents as a waste of time and money. I used to accompany a friend to ballet,
where I sat crying in the back of the room. At my present age, ballet was out
of course, but ballroom dancing seemed a possibility. To be sure, I have never
been able to follow a partner, but I would be joining an Everdance class, in
which each person is on his or her own, all in a line or in a circle.
Everyone else had been in the class for some time, so I was
able to look at my first class hour as stumbling about because I knew less than
they did. By the second week, however, it was clear that I was just terrible at
this activity, possessing neither the grace nor the physical acumen to pick up
the new steps so beautifully demonstrated by the teacher. I have not even two
left feet; two or maybe more left hooves is more like it. Everything moved too
fast as well. I was always lagging behind. Disciplining the hooves was not
working.
So did I put it down to experience and leave the class? No
way! I haven’t had so much fun in ages. Just watching the teacher, a fiery
woman of Spanish background, was a joy. My relative success with the waltz
helped, but it was the very imperfectly performed salsa and the cha cha that
made me feel zingy.
A few days into the course I regaled a friend with a tale of
this experience. A perfectionist, she just shook her head. No way could she
take such a course and not perform perfectly. As this is a woman of world
renown in her professional field, one would think she would not need perfection
in a fun activity as well. Oh yes, it would be necessary.
I am well aware that it is perfectionists who produce most
of the
excellent work done in the world. But does this have to carry over into
fun activities as well? Yes, they tell me, it does. How exhausting! And I feel for their inability to celebrate the basic imperfection of mankind. Imperfection
is not always something to moan about; sometimes it is something to appreciate.
As in my dance class.
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