Suburban Turmoil
Legs, Legs, Legs!
That’s what I’ve renamed the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, now playing at the Grand Ole Opry House through Dec. 31. Sure, the show features a singing Santa, dancing bears, a disturbingly chipper chorus of singers and a live nativity scene, but let’s be honest. The ticket holders show up to see legs, specifically those belonging to the world-famous Rockettes, and nowhere is this more evident than in a scene that introduces them legs-first, dancing behind a screen that covers their upper bodies. At the sight of those perfectly toned gams, the audience gasps with delight and spontaneously bursts into applause.
I settle back in my seat, enviously imagining the lives those legs and their owners surely lead. I’ll bet the Rockettes wake up late every morning in large hotel suites filled with flowers from admirers. Emerging swan-like from their beds, they run bubble baths topped with rose petals and admire their flawless complexions in the mirror before taking muscle-relaxing soaks and wondering which up-and-coming country music stars will squire them around town after the evening’s performance.
Is it wrong that I get a little pleasure from knowing that at least one of them is getting up at the crack of dawn, sore and exhausted and mentally steeling herself to feed, bathe, clothe and entertain her two small children before arriving at the Opry House and dancing through up to three performances a day? Now, that’s my kind of Rockette.
Her name is Corrinna Lindholm, and she’s a Chicago native who’s brought her Air Force pilot husband and kids (ages 4 and 2) with her to Nashville this year to appear in her 10th season of the Christmas Spectacular. Lindholm is one of a growing number of Rockette mommies, quelling the notion that Radio City’s finest are all impossibly young, virginal beauty queens who just happen to have mad dancing skills.
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On stage, Lindholm’s extra child-chasing workouts show. She’s one of the skinniest dancers on the line, the bones of her chest and back plainly visible above the neckline of her sequined costumes. But motherhood has also given her the kind of curves that would’ve shocked Rockettes founder Russell Markert when he debuted his kick line back in 1925.
“I was close to five months pregnant when the Christmas show closed,” Corrinna says. “It’s not something I’d recommend.”
Me either. When I was five months pregnant, I spent much of my time on the sofa, eating Ben and Jerry’s and complaining about my sciatica. If Lindholm isn’t careful, she’s going to ruin the whole pregnant-woman-is-an-invalid-who-must-be-pampered myth for all of us. Quickly, I change the subject.
“I guess your kids think having a Rockette for a mom is awesome.”
“They really like it,” she says. “They perform scenes from the show when they play together. And my daughter will bring it up at preschool: ‘My mommy’s a Rockette.’ ”
Personally, I can only hope that her daughter will one day add, “And she can high-kick your mommy’s butt.” Because after watching Lindholm effortlessly hoof her way through eight costume changes and two hours of dance routines, I have no doubt that she could indeed kick ass at any given PTA meeting if the need arose. With this in mind, I ask if she’s dealing yet with any disses from the minivan mommy squad.
“I think when people find out what I do, they get freaked out at first,” she says, noting that once moms actually get to know her, they’re usually very nice. Not counting the time she showed up at her daughter’s preschool in full makeup after a Rockettes public appearance.
“Are those false eyelashes?” she says, narrating the words behind the kinds of looks she got from the other moms. “What exactly do you do all day?”
“It’s intimidation,” I assure her. “And there will only be more of it as the other moms get older and fatter. Trust me.”
Despite her false eyelashes and dancer’s body, I’m beginning to forget Lindholm is a Rockette and this is an interview. We might as well be sitting at Red Caboose Park, bitching about trying to earn money while still spending quality time with the kids. Which brings me to an obvious question: “How much longer can you keep this up?”
Lindholm still looks great on stage, but if Rockette years are like dog years, she now qualifies for a cane and a bottle of Metamucil. She admits that she toyed with quitting after last season, at least until talking to her daughter.
“When I said I was thinking about not doing the show, she cried for two days,” Lindholm recalls. She caved to tear pressure, but next fall, her daughter starts kindergarten. Although she cringes at the idea of pulling her out of school for the show, another fear keeps her from making a final decision.
“I can just see some kid asking, ‘What’s your mommy do?’ And my daughter will say, ‘Nothing.’ ”
I sigh and put down my pen and notepad. This Rockette has uncovered the cold, hard truth that all moms discover sooner or later: motherhood, with all its joy and wonder, sometimes feels like nothing so much as a precision kick to the head.