In Western South Dakota where I grew up, boys do NOT study ballet. It's one of those things that you just know; nobody needs to tell you. Real men hunt and fish. They drink beer and watch football. They are in attendance at the annual production of The Nutcracker for one of two reasons: they were dragged there by a woman or their daughter is performing AND they were dragged there by same said woman. That's as close as any man will get to the wonderful artform that is dance.

I was born and raised in Sturgis, South Dakota, home of a world famous motorcycle rally. To the average male citizen of Sturgis, the word "dancer" brings to mind only one image. It involves a bar and a mirror. Let me clarify lest anyone get the wrong impression. These are not the horizontal bar and mirror of a dance studio. No, no, no... this bar is in a vertical position and is generally referred to as a pole. And, the mirror... Yes, you've guessed it. The mirror is attached to the ceiling.

As a young boy, I was somewhat of a misfit although I really didn't notice or understand why. I guess I was blessed with a certain level of blissful ignorance. I simply went through life oblivious to the fact that I was wonderfully eccentric. I loved the arts. In the third grade, I was the Candy Man in our school Christmas program. I still remember skipping around waving my red, white, and blue top hat, candy canes pinned to my blue suit. In 5th grade, I was a dancing crow in the spring musical, a revue based on The Wizard of Oz and The Wiz. I eventually studied music and became an elementary music teacher. I still hear that the music programs I produced with my students have never been out-done. Perhaps, I was a born performer.

My partner thought I was crazy a few months ago when I announced that I was signing up for an adult beginning ballet class. My mother was mortified by the thought of me in tights. My sisters both chalked it up to flamboyance--"You always were so artsy." My father refrained from making any comment. I promptly went shopping and came home with slippers, tights, and a dance belt (think jock strap with a bit more padding--who knew such a thing existed). My life as a dancer begins next Monday, and I'm going to savor every moment!

I have often marvelled at those who regretfully announce that they wished they had taken piano lessons or would love to write poetry. I see so many adults whose lives are so consumed by duty and responsibility that they become bitter and miserable. So many people have dreams and aspirations that remain buried deep inside without ever being nurtured and allowed to grow. So many people seem to decline following their hearts' desires in favor of what seems more acceptable or sensible. I don't understand why. As Langston Hughes pondered, "What happens to a dream deferred?"

I don't expect to be a great dancer. I'm nearly 40 years old, well beyond my prime for such endeavors. I do, however, intend to have a great time. There is a time and season for everything under heaven. Now is my time to DANCE!