No matter your age, you still need to have goals & dreams
Let me tell you something about being 71 (like a little kid with a birthday coming up – I’m almost 72): I had visions of being settled, sipping tea on the lanai, bragging to my friends about how many grandkids I have, maybe taking the occasional cruise (the kind with shuffleboard tournaments and low-sodium buffets). I’m not going to lie, the entire scenario I just wrote scared the HECK out of me. It’s just not who I am. Instead, here I am — pushing the living room furniture aside so I can dance like no one’s watching… except for Baby, my bull terrier, who seems to think every slide is an invitation to body slam me with love. This year, I’ve set a new goal, and it’s a big one. And I’m going to share it with you because I believe wholeheartedly that it’s never too late to chase your dreams, no matter how old you are or how long it’s been since you’ve worn tights.
So here it is:
I’m going to Paris to dance
Not to twirl in front of the Eiffel Tower for Instagram (okay, maybe just one twirl), but to actually take a dance class in person with Ralph Beaubrun — a dancer and choreographer whose work I adore. There’s something magical about how me mixes Groove with his own style (think Twila Tharp in only a 2025 version – who was my hero when I used to dance).
- Crazy? Maybe.
- Doable? Absolutely.
- Terrifying? Yes — but not because of the class.
No, the real challenge is getting Mr. S to go with me.
First-Class Dreams, Economy-Size Challenges
Let’s talk about my husband for a second. Mr. S is a tall drink of water — 6’1″, ex-football player, the kind of guy who used to throw other men to the ground and get applauded for it. But put him in an airplane seat, and he turns into a grumpy giraffe folded into a shoebox. The idea of flying for nine+ hours? He looks at me like I just asked him to run a triathlon in heels.
Add to that the fact that he doesn’t speak French (and doesn’t want to), doesn’t like crowds, and thinks every vacation should include a recliner and a remote control… and you’ll see why Paris, the city of lights and tight hotel elevators, is not his idea of a dream.
He also doesn’t like to talk to strangers. I mean it. The man has never voluntarily spoken to another human being in public unless he was ordering a steak. And even then, it’s a one word: “Medium.” Which is ironic, because he married me, a woman who will strike up a conversation with the TSA agent about their nail polish while barefoot in the security line. I’m most comfortable in social situations, even if I don’t know a soul in the room.
I don’t even know why he’s so worried about the language barrier. I mean, I’ll be doing all the talking. If he ends up in a bistro without me (unlikely), I’m pretty sure he can point to a steak-frites on the menu and grunt (I call that the point and shoot method of ordering food, you can also point at what someone else is eating that looks good and shake your head with a smile – been there, done that). Voilà. Problem solved.
Dancing in My Living Room (and Over Baby)
So, how am I going to get ready for this dream? With a little strategy, a little credit card action, and a lot of enthusiasm. For starters, Ralph Beaubrun — the singer, dancer, and choreographer that I’m OBSESSED with — has launched an online dance school. It’s like the universe said, “Zippy, we’re giving you a dress rehearsal and you can take as long as you like to prepare.”
That means I’ll be been pushing aside the coffee table, shooing Baby out of the way (unsuccessfully), and sweating in my favorite yoga pants while attempting moves that my hips haven’t attempted since dancing with Julie Strandberg at the Ashamu Studio or on the dance floor at The Gallery in Providence (hello 70s – I miss you). Baby seems to think every pirouette is a cue for playtime. I can’t tell if she’s dancing with me or just wildly confused, but let’s be real, she’s living her best life. And so am I.
The best part? These online classes are getting my body and brain ready. Muscle memory is real, and even if my memory is occasionally foggy about where I put my glasses, my body remembers how much joy it feels when it moves with rhythm and intention.
There’s something almost sacred about rediscovering that fire in your belly. It’s the same fire I had when I was younger, dreaming of taking my bow and the applause. Now, I’m dreaming of Paris, parquet floors, and walking into the studio in sweats and a t-shirt while I move to Fuego.
The Credit Card Strategy: Points, Baby
Now, let’s talk logistics.
If I want Mr. S to survive the flight to Paris without turning into a grumbling statue of protest, first class is a must. There’s no way around it. He needs the legroom, not having someone sitting near him that might want to engage in conversation, and preferably a lie-flat seat that makes him forget he’s flying over an ocean.
How am I going to pull this off? Points. Miles. Strategic swiping. This year, my credit card is getting more mileage than my car. But here’s the thing — I’ve never carried a balance. Not once. That’s the secret sauce, my friends. If you’re going to use your card for everyday purchases, treat it like cash. Pay it off every month (I actually pay it as soon as I see it come off “pending” in my account). Reap the rewards.
Every grocery store run, every gas station stop, every bottle of wine for a Friday night Netflix marathon — it all adds up to points. And those points? They’re going to put my husband’s long legs in a seat that reclines fully while a flight attendant offers him a cheese plate and a hot towel. If that doesn’t convince him, nothing will.
The Real Reason: Because Life is Still Full of Firsts
Here’s the part I want to shout from the rooftops — especially to my fellow baby boomers: we don’t have to stop dreaming.
We don’t have to stop doing.
We don’t have to shrink ourselves just because the world thinks our “prime” is behind us.
Let me tell you something: this is my prime. I know who I am. I know what I want. And I’m finally giving myself permission to go after it without apology.
I know some of you are reading this and thinking, “Well, good for you, but I’ve got arthritis/knees/bills/kids/grandkids/etc.” And yes, those are real things. I have back and hip pain (former dancer here), and trust me — there are days when I wake up and I have to start slowly. But I also know that movement heals. Joy heals. Purpose heals.
Setting a big, audacious goal like dancing in Paris at 71 isn’t just about checking something off a bucket list. It’s about telling the world (and myself) that I’m still here. Still vibrant. Still ready to grow and stretch and leap even if it’s a little slower, even if I have to ice my hip (my piriformis hates me) afterward.
How You Can Set Your Own Big, Bold Goal
Maybe your dream isn’t to dance in Paris. Maybe it’s to write a novel, start a podcast, plant a garden, or take a solo trip for the first time. Maybe it’s something quiet, like learning to paint or joining a choir. The point isn’t what the dream is. The point is giving yourself permission to have one.
Here’s how I’m doing it — and how you can, too:
1. Get Clear About What Lights You Up
What do you daydream about when you’re doing the dishes or staring out the window? That’s your clue. The dream doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but you.
2. Break It Into Steps
I didn’t just say, “I want to dance in Paris” and hop on a plane. I found a way to train at home first. I’m building my strength, learning the choreography, and giving myself a head start. Every big dream starts with a small step.
3. Remove the Guilt
This one’s hard, especially for women of our generation. We’re so used to putting everyone else first. But guess what? It’s okay to spend time and money on your joy. Your family will survive while you’re off doing something that feeds your soul.
4. Laugh at the Obstacles
Mr. S is my biggest obstacle — and I adore him. But instead of letting that stop me, I’m making it part of the story. The quirks, the resistance, the grumbling, it’s all just material for the next blog post..
5. Get the Dog Involved (Optional)
Baby has become my unintentional dance partner, and honestly? Sometimes makes every class more fun (sometimes it makes it more dangerous). If you have a pet, consider it your four legged dance partner who doesn’t step on your toes nearly as much as your husband does.
Final Thoughts: The Clock’s Not Ticking — It’s Cheering You On
People love to say “time is running out,” but I prefer to think of time as standing on the sidelines, cheering me on, waving pom-poms and yelling, “You’ve got this, Zippy!”
We’re not too old. We’re just getting started.
So, whether you’re dreaming of the City of Light or just a little more light in your day-to-day, I hope you’ll take this as a sign: go for it. Chase the thing. Book the class. Make the plan. Even if it feels silly. Even if someone tells you it’s too late.
Because at the end of the day, we all deserve to feel that thrill, the one that comes when we realize we’re still capable of becoming more, doing more, being more. At 71 or 91.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to clear the coffee table. Ralph’s class is starting, and Baby is already in position — tail wagging, ready to dance.
