Laughing and Crying

Last weekend B. and I went with Chris and a couple of other friends of K.B.’s to a burlesque show at a local theatre. K.B. loved dancing of all varieties: Scottish country dancing, belly dancing, ballroom dancing, and, most recently, burlesque. She had started taking classes about a year and a half before she passed away.

She had had the chance to perform in several shows during her time with the troupe. For some reason I hadn’t managed to catch any of these (I know one she had to bow out of at the last minute because of a migraine). The only time I did see her dance in this style was at her wedding reception, when she and the rest of the women from the group showed off some of their moves. I joined them on the dance floor at one point and they urged me to “shake what my momma gave me.” It was so much fun. I asked K.B. about learning burlesque, too; in the fall we were trying to arrange private lessons for the two of us plus two more friends, but the timing didn’t work out. We were hoping to make another attempt to set up lessons for the four of us this winter.

So this was my first opportunity to see the women who danced with K.B. in costume doing their full routines. They were wonderful: funny, sexy in a coy, teasing way, and clearly enjoying themselves immensely. There were women ranging in age from their 20s to (probably) their early 60s and in body type from the very thin to the heavy-set. I envied them their self-confidence, their ability to revel in the beauty of their bodies. The audience could not have been more supportive: they hooted and cheered and at the end gave the performers a standing ovation.

I was so glad we were there so that I could see the full glory of a burlesque performance. I laughed so much; many of the women were talented comedians. But it was painful to be there, too, and not just because they paid tribute to K.B. in words, pictures, and dance. It was also because I felt that by watching the women of K.B.’s troupe perform in a way that K.B. loved, that I was learning about an aspect of her life which I had only partially understood previously. The joie de vivre, the sense of humour, the delight in one’s own womanliness: it was as if the spirit of K.B. was with us.

One would think that I would simply be able to enjoy that feeling, but no: it brought back the agony of missing her. Interspersed with the times when I was laughing with the dancers and admiring them were the moments when I felt that I was going to burst into tears again. I so wanted K.B. to stride on stage with that huge smile on her face, shaking what her momma gave her.

I kept it together until we got home and went to bed. And then I cried and cried.