This week… This week will be interesting, no doubt. We have no idea what this hand pain is all about, but I, in my usual fashion, will not go to the doctor for it. Nope. Refuse.
(But damn, it hurts.)
And it’s slow here at work. So PAINFULLY slow. Where’s all the work we were promised? Where are all the reports to read? Did I hurt your feelings with my red-lines and now you are taking your reports elsewhere? Don’t cheat on me like that!
And I gave a particularly idiotic and disfunctional performance in a public place on my birthday last Sunday (that didn’t involve alcohol but did involve the abuse of hip-wiggling privileges).
On Sunday, after spending the morning first losing key bits of my sewing machine and then cattily chatting the ear off of the ever-patient (except with kipper snacks) T. Kamice, I shook my fat stuff at an event in a local hotel.
I have been belly dancing a month. Everyone else there has been at it well over a year, and most far longer than that. I was asked to improvise, which has never been something I’m any good at, even with (what I consider) my best skillz. This is not one of them.
Then I was asked to be a part of a troupe routine. That I have done once. In class. Badly.
What I have to say about that is twofold- 1) At one point I was faced in an entirely different direction than anyone else in the group; and 2) O my fucking gawd- it was my fourth grade “talent” show all over again. I have only recently gotten over those nightmares.
The weird thing is I wasn’t embarassed at all on Sunday. In fact, it wasn’t until the 50 million^100th time I ran it through obsessively in my head that I became completely horrified that I’d ever have to see anyone EVER again.
I never once had stage fright or jitters that day. I wasn’t obsessing over my fat belly, thinking omigawd that totally skinny girl hates me right now because she can’t even look at flab without wanting to vomit and she was, for once, actually enjoying a bud light without thinking about how she’d have to throw it up later. None of that. I didn’t register anyone but my fellow dancers. And I had fun despite forgetting everything I ever learned in class and finding myself doing some sort of retarded salsa move to middle eastern music.
For once. I had fun.
But again, in classic ME fashion, I couldn’t let it last. In the version currently playing in my head, I not only turned the wrong way but I also peed myself and then got up in front of the crowd to sing an extended Inna Godda Davida complete with air guitar and head banging.
Why can’t I just let myself have a good thing? Why can’t it be okay that I got up and fucking TRIED for once, instead of being a chickenshit sitting on the side watching everyone else have a great time? Why can’t I allow myself a failure because I’m not perfect at everything the first time I try once in a while?
Surprisingly, and not at all in usual ME fashion, I am planning to go back to class tonight and face the possible wrath of “those who I made look terrible because I suck and don’t know my motherfucking right from left.” Previously, I would have stopped dancing. And perhaps fled the country.
But I’ll go back. Because I’m working on it, this work in progress that is ME.
I could have used a less mortifying birthday, but it will probably be a memorable one. If I get any pictures where I am facing the right way, I’ll post them. Especially because Cole looked so freakin’ cute in his tiny harem pants and sash. Oh! And he had a bindi on, too (one of the sparkly, stick-on “fashion” kinds that matched mine.). Cutest. Thing. Ever.