Gyrating between Du Mauriers

We're officially flying in the 'zero fucks zone'.

Before we can remember, we’re working overtime to download all of the knowledge we need to survive. We’re clocking every one’s every move—even when nobody thinks we’re watching.

When my sister, Sadie, and I were toddlers our Mom taught lunchtime aerobics to factory workers in our hometown. Each class, we were set-up in the back of the room with colouring books and a clear sight-line.

I was dazzled by what laid before me.

With the music pumping, we were live on the wire in an off-broadway rendition of the Village People’s YMCA. There was aggressive in-tune arm waving, stomping with unbuttoned denim vests, and most importantly, youthful vitality.

The stark windowless warehouse transformed into Studio 54 where misfits blossomed in sparkles and spandex. 

Compared to life on the dairy farm, this was New Yawk City, baby!

In reality, these 30 minute classes served as the smoker’s pit offshoot—inserting a boombox and mild gyrating between Du Mauriers. 

Still, I’d never seen anything like it. 

Sitting at our stumpy-legged kids table in the nose bleeds, we could barely colour. Don’t get me wrong, we probably filled-in a waxy elephant or two, but we had a feast for our eyes. Between Crayolas, unbeknownst to even ourselves, we were huffing in the world of aerobic dance. 

A few weeks later, at a deejayed wedding in Sudbury, Ontario our quiet observations exploded to the surface. No one remembers the exact song, but Ace of Base The Sign fits the timeline and has always made me toe tap with a teary eye.

At once, without prompting, Sadie and I received the call.

Under the disco-balled spotlight, we got to take our places—this time on centre stage. 

Together, we box-stepped, grapevined, and clapped in unison with the stern discipline of Russian child gymnasts. For the rest of the night, like twin marionette dolls, we moved stiffly and spastically, carrying out the lunchtime aerobics routine in earnest.

We were acting out our best impression of smoker-pit Patty, who was imitating my Mom, who was imitating aerobics OG Richard Simmons, who was channeling a fist full of sequins and God. 

This thing that we had silently absorbed had finally broken free. It entered the public sphere and not even the Hokey Pokey or a midnight buffet could stop us. 

As young kids, we don’t know why we do, we just do. We’re soaking up the world around us, but are still totally unfiltered.

It’s a brief splice of time where we’re liberated and unpasteurized, but also not sophisticated enough to know that our dancing has a palpable seizure quality. 

Our kid self—our true self—hasn’t yet been burdened by reservation and embarrassment.

We spend the rest of our adulthood struggling to get back to our authentic “sober dancing from the soul at a legion wedding in Northern Ontario” level of fucks—which you guessed it, is exactly zero.