Stars Even Fell on Alabama

FALLING STARS

WHEW! I can’t believe anything can feel this good. My shoes lie helter skelter where I kicked them as soon as I got home. My legs, effortlessly rose and spread eagled on the sofa. This old stand-by sofa has seen a lot of days and nights. Tonight somebody in heaven pitied me and plucked the down from angel wings so I don’t feel the lumps at all.

That same blue heaven suddenly becomes hell! ‘Mom, Mom, quick, bring me a Quinine pill. It’s in the middle of the middle shelf in my medicine cabinet. Hurry. My legs and toes hurt so much I can’t stand.’ Writhing, massaging, twisting, turning, do no good. I mutter, help, this is the worst. The pill and a glass of water are put in my shaky hand. I push my back against the arm of the chair and manage to sit up, swallow the whole big pill without choking. It takes almost ten minutes, minutes that leave me sprawled on a Medieval torture rack, before the Charley Horses are gone as suddenly as they had come.

Our government has decreed that Quinine, a non-addictive, non-sleep producing drug, is no longer available. It has been the only salvation for victims of malaria and people such as I who get severe cramps in our legs, arms, even backs, with no idea of when they will strike. I don’t know what is going to happen to me when the last pill that is now in my cabinet is swallowed. Neither my internist nor pharmacist has an answer.

Peace, comfort, the soft cushions ease the distress. I hear Mom tiptoe to my side, feel the puffy comforter cover my body. She tucks the end around my feet and leaves me to recuperate before I go upstairs.

It is morning. The sun is bright enough for me to know I’d better get up, dress and be at the studio practice room by 10. It is 8:45. Hopefully, traffic will move smoothly, no accidents, not too many long red lights. Stan, the handsome, strong dancing teacher and Danny, my equally handsome, strong partner are chatting, having coffee when I arrive. I get a quick hug from each, no coffee. ‘Let’s get to it, Kids! We’ll start with the knee drop. That needs a lot of work.’ Stan starts the tape at high volume. I wait for my cue, step left, twirl twice, arms high, I almost fly to Danny. He too has twirled twice, coming towards me. He drops to his knees, slides and catches me, sits me on his left knee and lifts me over his head. Something goes wrong and we both fall on the floor. ‘Again. Do it again, Judy. Your arms were too high. Set your eyes on where Danny is going to be, not where he is. Do it!’ Twice more we fall. Tries 4,5,6 and we have it right. Stan is pleased.

‘OK, next step. Danny, do the tango leg stretch, 4 steps only. Stop suddenly. Judy, take long seductive steps towards him. Get close, but don’t touch. Face him. Bend over from the waist, legs taut, touch the floor with your fingertips. Danny, put your hands tightly on her waist. Now slowly try to lift her into a cartwheel over your head. I’ll be at that position to tell you what to do next.‘ We try it without music and fail miserably. An hour, a tough hour, later we almost have it.

Lunch break is more than welcome. Danny is as pooped as I am. Stan isn’t at all tired. In my next life, I’ll be the teacher. Our ½ hour lunch is unanimously extended to a full hour. Danny and I are not professional dancers but love dancing and do it well when not given routines. We were both surprised to be tapped by Dancing With the Stars. Dancing becomes secondary, learning acrobatics is first priority.

Busy, aching days disappear. Costumes are designed, made, fitted. Our routine is as good as it is going to get. I am sore, knocked out every evening as I drive home, anticipating the soft feathers under my back, but never find them. I ache all over, have bruises that are going to have goop put on them so the audience won’t notice them. Danny and I have talked about our experience and have little confidence that we stand any chance at all of winning but will give our performance all that we can. Separate dressing rooms hold our costumes, labeled on pipes. Accessories are near our make-up chairs. A buzzer sounds. Stan comes twinkling in, ‘Show time!’

Mom is beside me. She shakes me gently. ‘Judy, time to go to work. Your groaning half the night had me worried so I didn’t wake you to come to bed. Those tennis lessons you take are a strain. The Charley horses last night should warn you to stop. They must have given you those bad dreams.

Get dressed. I’ll have your crisp bacon with sunny sides up ready when you buzz and give me your cue.’
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