There comes a time in every woman’s life when she realizes the kids are about to leave the nest, her AARP card is whispering seductively from the junk drawer, while arthritic knees begin to squeak as she climbs a single flight of stairs.
I’m two weeks shy of 57. My youngest is a high school senior and will likely be out of the house within the year. So naturally, I decided this was the perfect time to… take up samba for the San Francisco Carnaval parade.
Because when life gives you empty bedrooms and existential questions about your future, you glue-gun beads to a wire bra and shake whatever body parts will listen.
Let me rewind.
I’ve always loved dance. In my teens and twenties, dance figured prominently in my extracurricular activity – parties, on-campus clubs, and NYC clubs. But it wasn’t until I was 40 when I took my first formal dance class, partly to sweat off the postpartum fluff following the birth of my second child, but mostly because I missed dancing. I missed dancing in a crowd, feeling the groove, and acting out my fantasy of being a Beyoncé backup dancer.
Flash forward to 2025: A friend, Susanne, from that “Rhythm & Motion” dance class that has since became my religion, would post dazzling photos every year of herself in full Brazilian regalia for SF Carnaval — feathers, fringe, the works. And every year, I’d whisper, “Maybe someday.” (Spoiler: “Someday” is just the sexy cousin of “never.”)
Then fate intervened — in the form of another sweaty, sparkly dance class led by a professional drag queen with the energy of six espressos and the early 80’s attitude of Madonna. One month he’s teaching the MV moves of Rose’s “APT”, and the next, the class focuses on perfecting Lady Gaga MV moves to “Abracadabra”.
That’s where I bumped into Susanne almost 7 weeks ago and she introduced me to Kirsten — whom I would later learn was the operational wizard behind the dance group Sambaxé. She offered the most high-pressure, low-key ultimatum I’ve ever received: “If you can handle this choreo, you can learn the three samba routines for Carnaval. But you only have until midnight to decide — we’re ordering costumes from Brazil tonight.”
Reader, I signed up. Because when your life plan after 57 is just vibes, you say yes before your brain can object.
There was only one problem: Samba is hard. Like patting your head, rubbing your belly, doing high knees, and twerking — all at once. Or belly dancing interpretive Morse code. At high speed.
Everyone else had already been rehearsing for 10 weeks. I had six weeks and six rehearsals left. Being very left-brained, choreography has always been a challenge for me. And just two weeks in, they added a fourth routine. I panicked.
Strangely it wasn’t the choreography that would get me, it was the samba. My hips, square as a banker’s briefcase, weren’t prepared. The right one wiggled. The left? Rigid. Sexy as a filing cabinet. The advice I got from samba veterans? “Fake it till you make it.”
So I did. For six weeks, I obsessed over rehearsal videos. I attended extra clinics. But every time the samba section rolled around, my brain turned into microwaved mozzarella. I’d watch the front-line dancers slay it — hips undulating like jellyfish on ecstasy — while I shuffled behind them like an off-brand Roomba doing “interpretive grapevine.”
But oh, the costumes.
Each headdress and bra frame was hand-welded in Brazil. Leotards were stitched. Sequins sewn on one by one, and then shipped to California in the midst of Trump tariffs, albeit a few weeks late. Even still, we had to DIY.
My headdress alone took 14 hours of ribbon wrapping (so the gems, sequins, and faux pearls would stick better with the hot glue). The wire bra? Another 6. Then came 20 hours of late nights bead-gluing, pearl-stringing, and panicked Googling of “how to secure your dignity with fashion tape.” Altogether? 40 hours of DIY sparkle. Quite possibly I spent more time on my costume then rehearsing the routines.
This was my first foray into face gems, layering rhinestone-encrusted fishnets over shimmer tights (yes — two pairs), and balancing a toddler-sized headpiece. I took the advice to wear gel soles, even though I opted to wear gold platform sneakers instead of the killer platform sandals others wore. I would secure the wire bra by double-knotting and crisscrossing the bra elastic around my back, and would fasten as best I could the three feet of vertical glory to my scalp with a dozen XL bobby pins, hairclips, and bias ribbon, for the 2.2-mile dance route
Dress rehearsals at home were full of wardrobe malfunctions. Fishnets don’t play well with Velcro, zippers, or rhinestones. My three cats, convinced I was a sentient cat toy, stalked me relentlessly. Naturally, one broke into the closet the morning of the parade, leaving a trail of feathers, beads, and snapped glittery plastic sprays in his wake. Oh so many nights re-gluing beads or just cutting off pieces that couldn’t be salvaged.
And yes — the bras were “authentic.” Which is a nice way of saying: minimal coverage. When I decorated mine, I assumed I’d wear something under it. Nope. That pearl-encrusted wire contraption was the top.
My first thought: “Who wants to see the nips of a 57-year-old with the chest of a yoga mat?” Especially with my mother-in-law planning to trek to the Mission District to watch the parade. But I also learned this: glitter, confidence, and good posture go a long way. (Also: slap-on silicone self-adhesive pasties that luckily matched my skin tone).
Parade Day. 7:00 AM.
At first, I didn’t recognize anyone. The athleisure crowd from rehearsal had transformed — lashes, hair extensions, six-inch Brazilian platform gladiator sandals. But their spirit? Unchanged.
Strangers and friends helped each other with fashion tape, bobby pins, and sunscreen. Our troupe spanned races, generations, and sizes — from teens to 60s. Maybe even older. Moms with their kids. Thin, curvy, athletic, plush. The “dude line” was just as diverse. It felt like how communities should feel — no formal intros required, just mutual support and sequins.
And honestly? Everyone looked glorious. Especially the curvy women who knew how to move their bodies. That’s how I want to know mine. For women over 50, or any age, I highly recommend finding yourself a large, body-positive community. You can’t really beat a Carnaval Parade for that.
I was still nervous. I hadn’t nailed the samba transitions. I kept copying the dancers, trying to mimic their rhythm. It didn’t work. Finally, I stopped watching and started listening — to the drums, to my own breath, to the beat under my feet.
And as we began dancing down the avenue in brusque, 60-degree weather— but the wind turning my headpiece into a mighty sail — I got it.
After the parade, I limped home, bruised, sore, glitter-streaked. My feet ached. My ribcage had raw spots from where the wires rubbed. I prayed not too many people noticed the money belt that held my keys and phone fall down my backside towards my crotch when the belt buckle failed. But once in pajamas, I watched the reels and footage — and there I was. My footwork had made it into the live broadcast!
Here’s what I really learned:
- You can’t learn to samba by copying the masters — you will only sprain your dignity.
- Listen to your body. You have to pause, breathe, and jump right in. Your body knows how to dance — even if it’s late to the party.
- Don’t wait for “one day.” Sign up at midnight. Say yes before you’re ready. (Especially if glitter is involved.)
So now, with both my kids nearly out of the house and a retirement spreadsheet open in another browser tab, I’m samba-ing into this next chapter — hips willing — with feathers in my hair and glue-gun burns on my fingers.
Because midlife isn’t an ending. It’s just the best excuse yet to dance like nobody’s watching — and dress like everybody should be. Just tell yourself, “It’s never too late to be fabulous.” Axé!
Copyright © 2025 Susan Kim-Stuart. All rights reserved.
Bio
Susan is a Korean-American who fled NYC decades ago, and washed up in Haight Ashbury, where she’s been living for 20+ years, with her husband, 3 tuxedo cats, and two young adult kids who think she’s “mid.” A digital banking CX professional by day, she does her best to ameliorate the frustrations of rage-clicking customers while finding time to dance in pride parades, or for general fun. Her current favorite dance styles are Hip-Hop, Latin, and K-Pop. Susan’s mantras are: “Joy makes a good mother,” “Dance it off”, and “Nothing matters, but wear something fabulous.”
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