Since my teen years, I’ve always wanted to learn to dance, you know, like club dancing, out there doing your own thing. But, I was always too shy to get out on a dance floor, or any floor, and shake my groove thing. Yeah, I’m a product of being a teenager in the 70’s. For a brief period of time, when I was about 17, I did go to a local disco tech. They had specific, alcohol-free hours just for teens. I believe the age-range permitted to enter was 15-17 years old. I was dragged there by a very persistent friend and to this very day that friend remains the only person to ever get me to dance in public. But, oh how others have tried and tried, and failed and failed. Heck, I wouldn’t even dance when I was home alone, with all the curtains drawn, doors locked, and the lights off. Regardless of my persistent friend’s belief that I, too, possessed the ability to cut loose under the sparkling mirrored ball hanging from the ceiling of this disco tech, I would only mimic someone else’s moves, mostly hers. I had no moves of my own. Nothing original. No “dancing with” or “feeling the music,” like they always tell you.

Now fast forward a couple decades or so, the year is 2002, I’m 41-years old and had been divorced for several months. It was then that I started going to a country-western bar with my very good friend, Dianne. We would meet there most every weekend night and we’d enjoy watching all the people shaking their stuff out on that dance floor. I actually met my current and forever husband at that bar. Ladies, there are good men in bars, though I’d never have imagined meeting one there. I only went to hang out with Dianne. Anyway, I admired the crowds of happy dancing patrons, even the truly goofy-looking ones, for they all shared the courage to go out there and have a ball. I so wished that I could be that brave. Of course, being that we were all in a bar, a bar that served alcohol, it maybe could’ve been that “liquid courage” working on those dancers. Coincidentally, I’ve yet to find the correct dosage of liquid courage that’ll make me do it. Truth be told, I haven’t tried very hard to find it either. Still, weekend after weekend, there I would sit, watching and sometimes envying the fun being had by all of those brave people. Oh, many times I’d have the urge to run on out and join the party, but my overwhelming fear of making a complete fool of myself would always stamp out that urge and I’d remain seated. Then, one night there I was, elbows on the table, my chin resting on top of my folded hands, yet another night of watching everyone dance up a storm while I stayed put, motionless. I’d had enough. I braved up and…no, I didn’t go out there and dance, but I did make myself a promise: “Before I turn 42, I’m going to go out there and shake my stuff!” Well…did I do it? Show of hands, do you think I did it? Did I? Why, of course not!! I’m now 57 and still haven’t done it.

More recently, in 2017, I suffered from excruciating pain caused by a pinched nerve in my neck. I tell ya, I think I’d rather give birth ten times, without an epidural or any other type of pain medicine! It was relentless, constant, never easing, and nothing provided relief. Thankfully, I signed up with a wonderful physical therapist named Chad. During our sessions, we’d always talk and shared a lot of laughs. I can laugh through pain, I’m tough like that. I get that from my father. That clinic sure was a fun environment to work the kinks out of your body. In one of my sessions, I shared with Chad the details of my anti-dance plight, of being too big of a chicken to just go do it and how I’d broken a promise to myself several years earlier. I don’t remember how many therapy sessions I had before I was released and virtually pain-free. I continued the exercises at home and they finally stopped that last little bit of discomfort.

I did miss seeing Chad and went back weeks later just to visit. We chatted a bit and I told him, “I still haven’t gotten out on that dance floor.” He said, “You just need to go sign up for dance lessons at Arthur Murray. Just do it.” Hmm..”Yeah, okay,” I thought while kind of mentally rolling my eyes. But, when I left the clinic, Chad’s words were playing on a loop in my head. Arthur Murray. Arthur Murray! ARTHUR MURRAY!! As luck, or fate, would have it, I was driving through the fairly large city where Arthur Murray just happened to be located. It was a busy time of day and traffic was very heavy. I drove straight through the downtown area with no idea why because I usually avoid that area at all costs. Then, I saw it. There in the distance was the road which leads to the road that would take me to Arthur Murray. I was in the left lane of the very crowded two lanes leaving downtown. As that right turn was approaching, getting closer and closer, cars bumper to bumper in both lanes, I said, “Okay, fine! If this crazy traffic opens up and allows me to get over in the right lane, I’ll make that right turn and go sign up at Arthur Murray.” I’ll have you know, that the traffic in the right lane literally opened up at least two car lengths long. The universe was like, “Here’s your sign!! Come on over!” I was stunned. I’m sure my mouth gaped open in disbelief. Well, this is sometimes what happens when you challenge the universe.

I arrived at the dance studio, walked in all brave (ha ha) and actually signed up for lessons. You don’t want to irritate the universe, after all, especially when it opened a door of opportunity for you that was two whole car lengths long. I scheduled my first lesson for the very next day. I was so nervous. When you hear “private lessons,” you picture you and the instructor in a room or studio alone, don’t you? I know I did. But, you’re in a large studio with other students who are with their own instructors. There are a lot of eyes in there. I made it through that lesson and drove home with the rhythm and count from my first dance still playing in my head. When I first started, my lessons were only once a month and it’s a bit more difficult to learn dancing with that interval.

As of today, it’s been a bit over a year since I started taking dance lessons at Arthur Murray and have increased them to once a week. I think I’ve had a total of 21 lessons so far and at each and every one of them, my instructor has suggested that I “start coming to the group classes” so I could get more practice. I was nervous enough toying with the perimeter of my comfort zone with just the private lessons and he wants me to join a group?! Then, one day a couple weeks ago, I decided “I’m just going to do it! I’m going to the group lesson for the hustle dance.” It was an advanced class for the hustle, too, but it was the only one available for me to jump on while I was feeling so fearless. Something pushed me to do it anyway. I was all courageous and daring when I asked the instructor if I could attend regardless of my current abilities and coordination. Surprisingly, she allowed me to stay. Well, you remember when I said my fear of making a fool of myself overpowered all my urges to shake it on a dance floor? Going to this advanced hustle group class was the very best thing I could’ve done for myself because making a fool of myself was exactly what I did in that class. I’d spin the wrong direction, step on toes, miss the cue to rotate to the next dance partner (you change partners frequently in a group classes), and I’d sometimes hold my partner’s hands too tightly. I looked like I’d been spun around about a 100 times and then unleashed onto the dance floor. I totally made a fool of myself. But, you know what? I survived. I wasn’t thrown out of the class. I wasn’t banned from Arthur Murray. For the past forty-something years, perhaps I could’ve been dancing if I’d only gone out there and made a fool of myself sooner.

So, if there is something you really want to do in this life, but you are being held back by the fear of looking foolish, I say to you:  Do it anyway!  Do it now!!  Go to the next higher level class like I did, dance like a buffoon, look that fear right in the face and say, “You don’t scare me any more. I faced you and I survived.” It’s liberating!  You may be wondering if I have yet to shake my bootie or my groove thing out there all by myself. Not quite yet. But, I am getting closer! I’m currently learning how to shake my hips in couples dances. I didn’t know mine would or could even move that way. I’d always thought it had to do with being limber or flexible. Did you know, that truly has nothing to do with it? It has everything to do with your knees. Your knees control you’re hips. Wow! Kaboom! Mind blown.

Side note: I had my weekly dance lesson today and we practiced a lot of turns and spins. I get dizzy very easily so those are a challenge, but that’s beside the point. My instructor said, “Every time I spin you, you pop.” I don’t hear it, but he does. He said it sounds like it’s coming from my shoulder. Now, when I go to my lesson next week I’ve got to ask him if we can invent a dance called “The Spin and Pop.” LOL! Stay tuned…

I shared this story with my Facebook friends last Friday. I am a registered nurse and work prn (that’s “as needed” for you non-medical folks). My schedule is flexible and varies week to week. Kind of like part-time but without a regular schedule. Anyway…

Last week, I worked more days than I usually do, and longer hours, too. By Thursday night, I was really hoping they wouldn’t need me Friday and would call me off because I felt I was developing a cold and wanted nothing more than to sleep sleep sleep. Not receiving the coveted, you-can-be-off-tomorrow message Thursday evening, and determined to not call in and leave my co-workers short-staffed (I’m so conscientious that way), I plodded through the house to perform my readying routine for the next work day. My scrub set, along with the required undergarments, was rolled up and placed on my dresser. My iWatch was placed on its charger on the kitchen counter next to all the things I put in my scrub pockets for work each day, as well as my car keys. I poured water into my coffee pot and scooped the precise amount of Starbucks mocha coffee grounds into the filter. Close the lid. I was ready and could relax until bedtime. Contented sigh. Friday morning comes and the first of my two iPhone alarms blasts away. I swear it was like 20 minutes after I’d closed my eyes. I get up, brush my teeth, then head to the kitchen to turn on my juice-of-life maker and get my travel mug in position to receive it. Shower, dress, makeup, briefly muss with the hair. Oy!! Well, it looks good enough, I’m tired — just let that freakin’ mega-huge cow lick show! I don’t care! Put on shoes and head back to the kitchen to pour my coffee. What?! It didn’t even brew?! I thought, I must not have put the water in it, so I commenced to filling up my plastic 2-cup measuring cup, which I use daily, with the proper amount of water and after about a third of that water was poured into the coffee maker, I realized the water had in fact already been in there. I’d just left the thing unplugged. I had precious little extra time to start from scratch, so I decided to let it brew and cut it off before it used the excess water. Making such good use of my time while my morning elixir is brewing, I go outside and feed the cats. (A group of cats is called a “clowder.” Did you know that? I learned that from Sheldon Cooper on Big Bang Theory. I learn a lot from television.) Anyway…having placed nine equal piles of dry cat food on the driveway, spaced very equally, too, by the way, I go back into the house to check the coffee process and decide it’s brewed enough for my daily cup of life juice. Turn off the pot. Pour fresh, hot coffee into my mug, give it a taste test and discover it is not right. Too strong. So, I turn the coffee maker back on and let it spit out some more juice. Hmm…that looks about right. Nope, still too strong. Allow a bit more water spittage and pour part of it into my mug. That’s good enough. Shut off the coffee maker and unplug it. Out the door and into my car. Every morning, once I’ve driven through the 6 miles of country road and turn on the main road, I start sipping my coffee and today’s cup was just not right. Now, it’s too weak. Oh well, I’m drinking this SOB’ing stuff anyway after all that extra effort. I don’t care! I work all day, all the while hoping to be sent home early. You know, the coveted you-can-go-home-now verbiage. Nope. Lunch comes. Lunch ends. Back to work and I finish at my regularly scheduled time. It’s all good. I survived and had a few good laughs with my co-workers. It was actually a pretty good day, despite my constant desire for slumber. 

During my 25-mile drive home, I contemplate: Now, do I want to try to take a nap when I get home, or do I want to make a second cup of coffee? Three o’clock is kind of late to take a nap. On the other hand, three o’clock is also kind of late to be drinking coffee, too. I mull this over while twirling my hair with my left hand as I maneuver through the bustling Friday afternoon traffic. This sleep vs. coffee vs. sleep debate would continue until I was within 5 miles of home, and my drive to/from work is 30 minutes long, with good traffic. Finally, I reached a decision. ANOTHER CUP OF COFFEE IT IS!! I might be up too late tonight, but I don’t care! 

The night before, my hubby and I had done some grocery shopping and, as luck would have it, Walmart was out of our favorite Starbucks mocha, “chocolaty and luscious” coffee. Great! Grr! But, I opted to give their vanilla-flavored ground coffee a try. What the heck is a vanilla anyway? So, after I got home from work on this sleepy, Friday, I thought it’d be a good time to try it this vanilla stuff out. If it sucked, I wouldn’t finish it, would still have ingested a little bit of caffeine to maybe help me stay awake a while longer AND I would still be able to sleep at bedtime. Sounds like a win-win to me. I fill my 2-cup measuring cup with water and pour it into coffee maker. Scoop precise amount of vanilla coffee grounds into filter. Plug in pot and turn it on. Several minutes later, I go back to the kitchen to pour my anticipated afternoon vanilla coffee treat and soon find that I have way more coffee than my very large coffee mug will hold. Yep! The coffee maker STILL had unused water in it from the morning coffee fiasco, and, apparently, I’d left a bit of brewed coffee in the pot as well. I decide that, screw it, I’m drinking it anyway. It wasn’t really bad, just a bit weak. But, then I realized that what I’d be drinking was the morning’s cold failure of brewed chocolate coffee that had been sitting in the pot all day which was now mixed with the fresh vanilla coffee. Nope. Couldn’t do it. Down the sink. Rinse. Start over. From scratch!

Ugh! Rinse out my very large coffee mug, place it in dish rack. Scoop out the freakin’ vanilla, NOT CHOCOLATE — well, NOT MOCHA — ground coffee into another cotton-picking coffee filter. Fill up the cute lil 2-cup measuring cup with the precise amount of water, just over the 2-cup mark. Pour it into the [insert any irritated adjective — I can’t think of another one and — I don’t care] coffee maker! Flip the switch. Minutes later, a nice cup of aromatic vanilla coffee is brewed. I pour it into my big mug, add my precise amount of heavy whipping cream, give it a stir, then take a test sip. It’s actually quite tasty and could, possibly, be my new coffee flavor, or at least an additional one. I’m enjoying it as I type out this heart-wrenching java saga to share it with you. I’ve only got about one-third of that coffee left in my mug so…I may be awake until 3:00 a.m. tomorrow. But, you know what? I don’t care!!

Are you wondering where that funky name originated?  Let me explain.

You remember way back in the late 1990’s when “getting online” was all the rage and AOL seemed to be the most popularly chosen dial-up internet service?  Dial-up, yeah, I can still hear that modem screeching like a cat being swung around by its tail.  Well, it wasn’t long before everyone in our family had purchased a computer, signed up with AOL, and in no time we were all enjoying the online chat feature.  It was especially nice for me, being able to converse with my parents regularly without running up those pesky long-distance phone charges on the land line.  We had push-button, corded telephones, too.  Wow, so much has changed!  And, you know, that “You’ve got mail” thing — it was pretty cool.

During this time period, I took a Florida vacation wherein I stayed with relatives who, of course, used AOL.  I mean, why would they not?  They invited me set up a screen name under their account which allowed me to continue enjoying the daily chats with my parents during my stay.  Wasn’t that nice of them?  Coming up with a screen name took me some time, though, because I wanted something really unusual.  I don’t remember why I didn’t want to/couldn’t use my regular screen name on their computer.  Then it hit me.  I’ll use…”Bondon!”  In the 1970’s, when my nephew,  Jeremy, was very young, he could not pronounce “Vonda” correctly.  It would always come out “Bondon.”  So, there was my temporary screen name!  I put the KY on the end to represent the great state of Kentucky where I’ve resided since 1987.  There’s a story for another time.  Anyway, this Bondonky name, as it turned out, was not temporary at all.  It stuck with me long after that vacation even though I no longer used it on AOL.  Or anywhere else for that matter. However, through many subsequent online chats with my father, he slowly and very skillfully changed it to Vondonkey.  I suppose he did it because it more closely resembled my real name, you know, with a V and all.  My Dad did it!  He was always doing silly things like that with names and words.

Now, twenty years later, I am still referred to as Vondonkey by many of my family members.  However, these days it is more often said with a very heavy southern drawl, with higher pitch and major emphasis placed specifically on the “key” part. Like “Vondonk-EEEEE!”  Sounds like something from HeeHaw, doesn’t it?  Now you know the history of Vondonkey.  Won’t you sleep better tonight after having gained this knowledge?  Ha ha!

Introduction

In 2010, I had been a nurse for less than two years and was working the night shift at a local hospital. One night, I had a sweet patient who was a wise and lovely older woman. She was witness to my gracefulness when I got tangled in the curtain between the two beds. While I was escaping from the curtain, I bumped into her bedside table, which caused her cup of water to fall over and drip onto the floor. I dropped my pen when I was en route to finding a towel to clean up the water, and while bending over to pick it up, my glasses fell off of my face. She giggled at me and said, “You are a comedy of perils!” I got the biggest kick out of that! She made my major klutziness sound almost elegant. By the way, I thought that word started with a “C.” You know, “clutziness.” Learn something new every day! Anyway, I thought, “Yep. That’s me!” I decided that if I were ever to write a book, that would be its title. 

And, I am in the process of writing my book, A Comedy of Perils, and have 63,604 words written/typed, so far! The book’s description: A collection of hilarious, true-life, you-can’t-make-this-stuff-up stories, thoughts, quips and quotes, scattered throughout and interspersed within the traumatic experiences, tragedies, and heartbreak which, through its process of being typed, slowly morphed into my memoirs. 

To my wise and lovely patient, if you are reading this, I dedicate my book title to you.

Last night, my eldest daughter, Amber, suggested that I start a blog. She said, “You can make money doing that!” Really? Make money typing stuff for the world to read? (You know, kind of like publishing a book. Haha). She said, “You’re a professional.” What? Me?? You can get paid for that??? It turns out, you really can, and many bloggers make substantial incomes, too. I spent some time researching it before going to bed and woke up with it on my mind. I read through the guidelines on bloggingbasics101.com and voila! Here I am, a blogger. Who’d uh thunk it?! As promised, Amber, my blog is dedicated to you, for without your inspirational and vocal nudge, I would not have imagined doing this, at all. Thank you. I love you. 

I’ve also done a lot of research on how to get my book published. Traditional publishers prefer authors who have a “large online presence.” I guess that makes sense. If you already have an audience, you already have potential buyers for your book. I doubt that my Facebook page and my enthusiastic and supportive 50 or so readers qualify as a significant presence. Still, blogging is a great way to achieve it! So, let’s do this blogging thing!

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton