Health and happiness and some shit like that

Lots has been happening the last month and year and, well, my whole life really and it's really had me considering the importance/non-importance of health and happiness and how those things really shape our (my) daily lives.

This is going to be one of those rambly long posts, the kind of writing that ambles about in the woods not really searching for a destination, but is really only looking at the trees and how tall they are and my gosh bark is crazy when you think about it and why are pine needles so different than leaves and squirrels are incredibly cute assholes.

Ahem.

Just like that.

As a follow up from my last post, I finally got in to see my primary care doctor at Kaiser and I can see why he's so hard to get an appointment with; the guy is a great doctor, just what you want in a doctor: firm but kind, asks lots of questions and actually listens to your answers and works to figure out how to make your feel better and/or ease your fears. I don't know the last time I had such a good experience with a doctor.

And he also addressed Dr. Bitchface and how she called me fat. He actually pulled out a chart and showed me where I fall on the scale of overall health and weight and showed me where most people are (Scary Land) and where I am (Not too bad at all). He encouraged me to exercise more, but said I'm actually in good shape and he's not worried about me.



Huge sigh of relief.

It's amazing how one person's, one expert's, opinion or reassurances can change your whole self perception. it's amazing how hearing you're doing a good job or you're not fucking up your life completely can make you feel better, can make getting through the rough shit easier.

Anyway, he ran a full blood panel and I go back in a couple weeks for imaging to see if I have any cysts or growths and then I follow up with him. Here's hoping.

It seems obvious that health and happiness go hand in hand, but I don't think most of us live that way. One is usually sacrificed for the other and it's rare that most people have even one. I always preach about balance and all that, but it doesn't always happen. I know that yoga or dance, etc., make me both physically and mentally happy, but when I can't afford classes, it's easier to just skip and say, "soon."

So what's more important? I'm not saying we just give up and I certainly try to find ways to exercise or whatever, but it's hard when you scrape by to do just what you live and the best things to be healthy and well.

And most of us don't live our dream lives, don't have the dream jobs and the dream houses and all those other accoutrements we pictured for ourselves. There's something to be said for being responsible and holding down that shitty job and smiling through the stress and paying rent on that crappy apartment, because that's adulthood and that's responsibility and that's just life.

I have nothing but respect for those who do what they have to. My dad always did and I'd like to think I do too.

Or maybe those things are easier if one just feels a little fulfilled by their work, feels accomplishment, feels appreciated and valued in what they do regardless if what they do is what they want or not. Just knowing you're important and valauable is enough to feel a little satisfaction.

But is that really happiness? Where does happiness come in? In this world of pleasures and art and beauty are we not the least bit deserving of some happiness? How do we make time for joy? Is that only a privilege of the rich? How else does one pursue their dreams if they don't have the resources to fund them?



Or maybe that's only the life of Europeans. Maybe I have to live in Italy or Montmartre to have la belle vie.

I'd love nothing more than to abandon the 8 to 5, live that bohemian life, to spend my days making art, taking photos and painting and writing, traveling, eating and loving. But who can afford to do that?

They say money can't buy happiness, but it sure affords the time to pursue it. But maybe if I could afford all the time, I wouldn't appreciate what little there is.

Now, don't misunderstand. I've had my fair share of bold moves in the search for joy and I've had and do have joy, happiness, love. Hell, I quit my job and moved to another state without a job and without knowing more than 3 people there. And there are days when I get homesick and I question my decisions. Don't we all? But every move I've made, I've made for me and so that's gotta be good.




And this has been a big year too. Over a year ago, I wandered into a bar where I didn't know a soul, planted myself on a barstool, made new friends who would then introduce me to Eminem. I can't believe it's been a year. He and I are coming up on our anniversary in a couple weeks, counting of course from the night I took him home and not from our first date. Guess which came first?

Sometimes I think my whole purpose in life is to debunk ideas of appropriate female sexual behavior.

Anyway, we're coming up on a year and we're talking about getting a place together in the fall (damned budgets and leases) and I can say with absolute conviction that he makes me happy. Maybe that makes me a bad feminist or a bad therapy patient or something. Yes, no one else can *make* us happy, sure; we have to make ourselves happy. Blah blah blah. I can probably go back and link up all the posts where I've written just that.

But he does. He does. So there. Suck it, psychology.

There are a million little things that he does that make me happy. His existence in the world makes me happy. It makes me happy that he loves me and it makes me happy to love him. He appreciates me and who I am and that makes me happy too.



Is this scary as shit? Fuck yes. Do I feel totally safe with him and therefore even more scared than one would think? Am I worried that it will all come crashing down and this huge bundle of happiness we have will all blow away? Absofuckinglutely. But the scariest things always feel the best, don't they? Hell yes they do. That's what's so awesome about it.

Because I'm happy and so it's worth it. Happiness. Funny thing, that.

And despite my doctor's lack of worry about my weight, the fact remains that I'm carrying more weight than I ever have and I'm pretty sure it's because I'm happy and in love. Literally fat and happy, if you will.

I can accept being curvier if I get love. Maybe I could also have a life full of art too? Is that asking too much?

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

You read that right. Random Thoughts are back! You lucky ducks.

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So the other day I was sitting in downtown Portland, enjoying the sun (finally!) and getting the first sunburn of the year (awwyeah!) and avoiding the rats with wings. I mean pigeons. I hate pigeons. Hate them. They're disgusting.

Anyway, it occurred to me that that song in Mary Poppins, Feed the Birds, was about pigeons. That bird woman was feeding the pigeons of London. She was asking kids to give her money to feed the pigeons.

Why were we all so enamored by this? She was a crazy bird lady feeding the disgusting pigeons! London's pigeon problem is probably all her fault. And doesn't this make you question Mary Poppins' sanity? Why did she convince those two kids to give their money to a crazy bird woman instead of investing it in the bank? What the hell was the teaching those kids?

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Do you want to know the truth? The real reason dancers wear tights? It's not to look pretty and it's not, as we tell you, to keep our muscles warm. It's to hide all the wounds and bruises that dancing causes. It's true. Dance is brutal and they wouldn't want their pretty ballerinas to look all beat up and bruised would they? What kind of message would that send? Therefore? Tights.

In fact, even though I don't dance anymore, my legs still get all bruised up. It's like my legs are magnets for desk corners and random walls that come out of nowhere. I need to start wearing tights again. People must think I'm a masochist. Which I kind of am, I admit.

Next week: dancer's feet!

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Today is mother's day. I hate mother's day. Just like I hate all family and religious holidays. These days are supposed to be all about making us feel special and included, but they forget all about those who aren't included. Those of us without mothers or fathers or children or who don't practice a certain religion are totally left out and completely screwed.

At least on Christmas, you have to stay home because not one fucking place is open. On mother's day, if you go out and about like a normal person, you get inundated with reminders of your lacking. I swear, if one more person asks me what my big mother's day plans are, I might punch them in the face.

Because it doesn't stop with one question. I say no plans and they ask why and then I have to explain that I don't have kids (why not? oh don't worry! you'll get some!) (barf) or that I don't talk to my mom or sometimes I say that I don't have a mom, which then gets sad faces and sympathy and makes me feel like a jerk for ruining their lovely day. But fuck, they brought it up! Or sometimes they say, Oh everyone has a mom! Or they respond, Oh she's your MOM! Don't you want to call her? As if they know one fucking thing about my life and I really shouldn't have to explain myself to every random fucking stranger.

So in summation: mother's day sucks. I know this is also true for my friends who are step moms are have lost babies or lost mothers. I'm with ya, sisters. I'm with ya. Stay strong and fuck Hallmark.

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I am brilliant. Most days. Yesterday was not one of those days.

It was a beautiful day. And I really wanted to get outside. I also wanted to swim laps at the gym. So I decide that I'll walk the roughly three miles there. In flip flops. Because I'm a genius.

Also, the day before, I'd spent all day taking photos at a golf tournament and the bottom of my feet had started to get a few blisters that weren't that bad and wouldn't have gotten bad if I hadn't decided to walk three miles in the hot sun in flip flops.

So you can imagine what shape my feet were in by the time I got there.

I did have a good swim, but then I had to make my way home. Luckily, I'm smart enough to take the bus, but that included walking to find a business that would break a bill so I'd have exact change and then hobbling to the bus stop and then home.

I had planned on hiking today, to avoid mother's day, but as you can imagine, my sore soles are in no shape for a hike. At least there are cozy coffee shops with ice tea and rose gluten free cookies and wifi where I can write random blog posts.

There is that. It's brilliant really.

a little bit lost

I feel like I'm losing myself. I'm not sure where I went, but I can't quite find myself again.

I've always said that I met myself during my travels and, if that's true, maybe it becomes easy to lose oneself when you stay stagnant. I haven't really traveled in a long time. I'm not talking about my trip to California, I'm talking about truly traveling, experiencing somewhere new, meeting a new place and tasting its cuisine. I miss sitting in a foreign cafe, drinking some local tea or coffee, listening to live music, and soaking in the pure, raw experience.

But beyond that, I don't really do anything that I love anymore. Not personally anyway. I never write, I hardly ever take photos. I used to wander the streets taking photos of anything I spied, coming home to an impossible amount of film to sift through. I took photos on my vacation, but hardly any before or since. I don't ever write anymore, blogs or essays or poetry.

I don't create with words. Hell, I don't create anything. I suspect my creative muscle is atrophying.

I barely recall the last time I danced.

So if what you do is who you are, who am I? Am I someone new? Someone who can't bring herself to just create something, anything?

Where are the streets to wander and why don't I look for them? Where are the hours of sublime nothing, spent only with earbuds and a camera or a book and a cup of tea? Where are the minutes of delicious inspiration? Why did I let that go and how do I find it again?

When people ask me about myself, especially at work, where folks are all about the numbers and the selling techniques, I say, "I'm a creative." It's what's essential to the core of who and what I am. But can I honestly say that anymore...when I don't actually create?

All I know is it's causing me pervasive sadness, sadness that creeps in when I least expect it, ruining whatever happy moment I'd been enjoying, as if I'm grieving some friend who died too young. I resent myself for letting this loss happen. I feel immense guilt at just watching this girl waste away and doing. absolutely. nothing.

Nevertheless, I just sit here, motionless, somewhere beyond apathetic.

And yet.

And yet.

These thoughts ran through my head tonight over and over, like a long train that just won't end, and, instead of pushing them aside in favor of sweet, sweet sleep, I got up, pulled out my laptop, and wrote.

Duh, you snort, with the disdain of a thirteen year old.

You know I wrote. Obviously. But I haven't done that in a long time, chosen to write instead of whatever else beckoned me. I stopped and I wrote. I laid my thoughts to paper and I created.

That has to be a start.

I just need to move

I’ve been looking forward to this all day. I shove a burrito down my gullet, grab my bag, and make my way into class. If Lynn catches me eating a burrito, she’ll tease me endlessly about how the young think they’ll be thin forever, so I gulp it down and throw away the wrapper.

Dropping my bag in the corner and kicking off my flip flops, I pull off my sweats and pile my hair into a messy bun on top of my head.

I find a spot on the hardwood floor and plop down as ungracefully as possible. Other girls are wandering in and we gossip as they find spots in front of the mirror. I spread my legs out spread-eagle style and begin a good, cool stretch. 

With my arms leading, I pull my head down to my knees and grab my bare toes. My feet point and flex and point and flex and I feel the power of each tendon. I stretch my back and arms and ass and muscles most people don’t even know they have.

Lynn turns on an African beat, and we chat with her as she begins the warm-up. She leads and we follow along to the syncopation that resonates into the floor. The movement is a language all its own. 1 2 3 4 relevé, turn, plié, forced arch, relevé, tendu, turn, battement attitude, contract, release, and return. Again. Again.

After warm-up, we settle on the floor to stretch again. Fully warm muscles move into even deeper stretches and we groan as Lynn pushes further into our limits.

20 minutes at the barre in pain and agony as we focus on technique and feet and ankles and hips as we tendu and battement and round de jambe.

“Isn’t this fun?”

“Masochist!” we laugh back at her.

Time for choreography we’ve been working on for weeks. We take our places and Lynn starts the music. She counts us off but most of us know our cues. Immediately, my mind lets go and my body takes over. I cease to exist and my body is all there is of me. I can’t think about anything else. Only movement and music. 

My mind is gone and my muscles know each step. Bare feet slide and jump and mark time as fingers stretch, toes flex and point, legs and arms fly deliberately around, finding the floor and then up again, rolling, spinning, leaping, extending, and tilting.

I breathe into the movement. Ahhh ooh AHH shh oooh ah sss AH. Knees knock on the floor, toes scrape, muscles pull, but I don’t feel any of it. I just feel the steps, the movement, the pull of the dance from every inch of my body into my soul.

We repeat it over and over until class is over and even though I’m drenched with sweat and  my hair is a tangle and my lungs are threatening to burst and my muscles might just abandon my body for a much more sedentary host, I wish I could keep going.

Nevertheless, I pull on my sweats and flip flops and wobble out to my car a happier person.

Dancing is happiness. My whole life, no matter who I am or what is happening, I can forget everything and just move. It’s all I ever really need. Always just what I need.

This was a post for The Red Writing Hood RemembeRED prompt: Imagine you are meeting someone for the first time. You want to tell them about yourself. Instead of reciting a laundry list of what you do or where you're from, please give us a scene from your life that best illustrates your true self. This is an exercise in showing, not telling. You need to show us why this particular moment defines you, or why you want someone to know this truth about you. Be descriptive without bogging us down in extraneous details.

Sun Baby

Have I mentioned lately that it's hot here in sunny So Cal? I did? Well, it bears repeating again. It's hot. Damn hot. I realize that some like it hot, but I am having trouble finding any joy in hell itself.

You know how people who live where it snows a lot just hit their limit of snow? Like, so many years pass and they're done. Finished. Must move where it doesn't snow. Well, I've hit my limit of heat, of sun. After almost 30 years in this insanity (and I grew up in a desert, so it got hot, yo), I have hit my limit. Check. Got all the vitamin D I need. I don't need it to get above 75 ever again. Done.

I always wear sunscreen, because I grew up swimming and in the age of skin cancer and I want to take care of myself. But on days like this, I always feel like it's never enough, like maybe I should have slathered on 4 more layers or so of SPF 30. At this rate, I'll still end up with skin cancer and die an ugly death (ugly because my face will be marred by melanoma). I'm not making fun here, it's scary. And also ridiculous.

On one of the last flights I took, the flight attendant looked like a goddamn saddlebag. I could tell she was pretty at some point, with her nice smile and very coiffed, blonde hair and Tiffany charm bracelet. But I could not get past her unnaturally brown, leathery skin. *shiver*

I do not ever want to look like that.

So I slather on the Coppertone and hope for the best. Like I said, I was raised swimming. My mom was a pool manager my whole life, a swim instructor, and both my parents were life guard instructors. I was in the pool before I was walking. It's one of the best things of my childhood. I was a natural fish and took my first jump off the high dive (with help) at 2.

So it's no surprise that I spent most of my life in the sun. In the water under the sun. I'm sure some cancer is brewing under my skin by this point.

But I do still love to swim. If there were a decent indoor pool in my town, I'd go there instead, but they're uncommon in a place that gets so much sunshine. And the local pool where I like to swim laps opens in a week for lap time. I cannot wait. I won't get the full summer's use (moving to Oregon at some point soon), but I'll go after work as many days as I can.

There are two forms of exercise that I have always and will always love: dance and swimming. I like to run, but this is a recent development in the last 2 years. But dancing and swimming are my great loves and for two completely different reasons.

I dance because it's an escape. When you dance, you cannot think about anything but the steps. Your brain has to be completely focused. And once you learn the steps and muscle memory kicks in, you're thinking about the music and technique and presentation and a million other things. Whatever thoughts you had before cannot exist when you're dancing.

I swim because I can think and swim at the same time. Swimming is a completely natural process. I kick and a stroke and my body glides through the water with very little effort from my brain. So if I want to think things through and get my head straight, I swim.

But there is of course how glorious my body feels doing both of these things. Glorious.

ballet hips

The other day, I was reading one of my ohsofavorite blogs, The Pioneer Woman, and she joked about her bad ballet knees. And I thought, oh do I know ALL about that!

I may have mentioned once or a thousand times that I'm a dancer. Have been since the tender age of five. And I, as any dancer will sous sous and proclaim, have the same issues as any athlete. The best athletes I know wear leotards. 

that would be me at age 7

yes, my stage mom caked the makeup on. and it was the eighties

moving on

Dancing, whatever the style, is difficult. There is a reason that ballerinas train from an insanely young age, like gymnasts do. Ballet takes an intricate and innate combination of technique, strength, balance, flexibility, and, let's not forget grace. You're expected to move perfectly and perform insanely difficult things while making it look easy. THAT is the beauty of ballet. To make anyone think they can do it. But of course, the number of those who actually can, is relatively small.

And most other dance forms have basis in ballet. Any good dance teacher will tell you that ballet classes will improve your technique, no matter the class. In the years where ballet wasn't my focus, when my love was Contemporary or Jazz or even Hip Hop, I stuck with ballet (sometimes just in my own kitchen) to keep my technique up. 

We won't dwell on the fact that I'm dance classless a la moment because my dumb ass small town has a lack of good classes for us older folk. And in the dance world, I am old. I am. I'm ancient. Almost 30 for a dancer is like pushing elderly in the real world. So there it is.

25ish years of dancing has taken its toll on my body, though. And as I'm sure any athlete will tell you, while this kind of strain on the body can be beneficial to overall health, there are consequences. Tennis players have bad elbows. Swimmers have bad shoulders. Dancers have bad hips. Sometimes knees. And don't get me started on the feet. 

I've escaped the bad knees. Many ballet dancers I know have horrible knees. But my hips? I feel like such an old lady when I complain about my hips hurting. And, according to a dance teacher I spent 4 years training with, I have narrow hips for a dancer, so I would always have a hard time with hip strength and flexibility. But jeebus, it sucks. And I like to be active, so I just deal, but when I've walked a ton (like when I do charity walks), they ACHE. Like an old fucking lady, yo. And I know all the remedies, so spare me that. 

And the feet. The feet. I don't have the worst feet as far as ballerinas go. I spent most of my years barefoot anyway in Modern Dance and Hula classes, or in tap shoes (which if fitted correctly, shouldn't kill your feet), or in ballet technique classes in soft ballet shoes. But, I did take pointe. And pointe shoes, kids, are torture devices. 

my last pair of pointe shoes, hanging in my room

If you know anything about the history of ballet, you know that modern pointe shoes are an improvement considering what early ballerinas were expected to do. But  seriously peeps, think about what position your feet are in, your toes wedged into a block of wood that your turn and leap and land in. And the strain on your ankles. And the murder on your toes. Think about that! 

I do have some remnants of ballet feet. I have bones spurs and my pinky toes tuck under (which can be painful, but is mostly ugly) from wearing pointe shoes. But even Modern dancers have feet issues. When I was doing Modern, I some some serious callouses and my toes were always scuffed up and I always had mysterious bruises from different floor work. 

Oh and we musn't forget dance injuries! I've had numerous sprained ankles and fractured toes. And countless pulled muscles. But the worst was when I tore both my abductor muscles. Started off as a pull in one, but when I kept dancing (bad stupid young girl that I was), I tore it and tore the other one too. PAINFUL! And even after rest and physical therapy, I never was able to get my full flexibility back. And the older I get, if I don't stretch, the harder it gets. It's a bitch. 

I may not have bad ballet knees. But I have bad ballet hips. And Feet. And ankles. 

Shiny Happy People

Da dada DUM *drum roll* I have a day off tomorrow!!! A DAY OFF!! Like, it's  a Wednesday. And I don't have to work. And I can catch up on life. Do you understand how fantastic this is, Internet? Let's all take a moment and do the happy dance.


And here's some happy music to dance to:

*HAPPY DANCE*

Okay, do we all feel happy now? I certainly do. I am so excited for my day off. Considering that my last day off (Sunday) was spent recovering in bed with Hulu (I heart you, Hulu!) from my BIG EVENT, I am in great need for a real day off to get stuff done. I can finally take my poor car in for an estimate (yup, her bumper is still hanging on like a hangnail), do laundry and clean my house, write thank you notes, download my photos from last weekend, and maybe even catch up on some reading or even...*gasp*...wait for it...gardening! The options are endless and I am more stoked than a queen at Fashion Week.

And it gets better. I know you don't think it's possible, but you'd be wrong, Internet. It does. On Thursday I finally get some girly time with Mo! It feels like weeks since I've seen her and I haven't even gotten to hear how her first half-marathon went and she hasn't heard about Hot Bartender. Well, I'm sure she's read about him here, but believe you me, I plan on telling her much better details than I would disclose with you, Internet. I mean, don't be offended, but you and I just don't know each other that well yet.  What do you expect? These kinds of relationships take time. Anyway,  back to Mo and myself, this is very unlike us, so needless to say, we are long overdue for some much needed gossip. I'm really not sure how we made it this long, actually. I need my gossip. It's like a fix. Wait, let me go amend my crack post and add gossip to my list of cracks.

And then...I get to see my very favorite aunt on Saturday!! She's just moved down here to the south of Caleefornia from San Francisco and I'm going to spend some quality time with her at her new house. I love this woman. Next to my other favorite aunt who passed away when I was much younger, this awesome lady is one of my very favorite people. She is fun and generous and a really great female role model, the kind I really didn't have growing up with my harpy, I mean my mom. This woman met my friends and I in Paris when I was living there and we tromped around the city of lights and drank wine and ate too much cheese. She and I went to Hawaii together last year and she got me drunk on mai tais. She took one of my other cousins to Italy this last year where I hear they ate gelato every single day (ALL-ways a good idea in my experience). On a scale from one to awesome, I'd say she's super awesome! And I am completely excited to stay with her this weekend.

All in all, I'd say things are looking up. Now if only I had Hot Bartender's phone number. Or even his real name, for that matter. That could be a teensy hitch.

light up the sky like a flame

My dear friend Morgan and I went to see Fame tonight. Not much of a plot, but the dance numbers were fantastic! And before you chuckle, let me explain how much the original meant to me in my childhood and subsequent twenty-some odd years. When I was a little pigtailed girl (with huge bangs) in the eighties, all I really wanted to be was a dancer (or President. Or an astronaut, depends on the day). Not just a ballerina, mind you, though if I had been cast as Clara in the Nutcracker, I would have hung the moon. No, I was going to be an all-around dancer. And this was even before I had discovered Modern/Contemporary, but I'll get to that later.

Before I get to me as a dancer, let me discuss the original Fame for a sec. I was in love with that film as a kid. And I don't remember what year it came out, maybe 86? So I was clearly too young and I'm sure it didn't have much of a plot then either, but the magic of that movie, the passion of the dancers. God, I wanted to move like that! I wanted to live forever! FAME! *whew* Got caught up in the moment for a second there. Anyway, Fame the film and the subsequent TV show has a place in my young dancer's heart.

Now, I was a busy child, with a crazy mother who had me in enough activities for six kids (Stage mom, swim mom, volunteer mom, etc. You get the picture). But there was one thing I did that I loved and that was DANCE! I started at around 5 and I took any kind of dance you can think of. Ballet. Tap. Jazz. Highland (Scottish). Hula. Maori. You name it. I loved to dance. It was the one place I felt confident. The one thing I knew without a doubt I was good at, but it was also the one thing I felt truly free doing. All of my life, I've been in my head, totally in my head, caught up in too much thinking and over analyzing and criticizing. But dance class? That, my friends, is the one place you can't think about anything BUT the steps. You have no choice. And once muscle memory kicks in, you can lose yourself dancing. You just go. Unless you've ever trained formally, I don't think words will ever truly convey that feeling. The steps just come out. Your arms just move. Your abs contract and release. And you forget everything but pure movement.

And each dance form is different of course, but the sentiment is the same. If you train, perfect your technique, flexibility, and strength, focus on memory and mimicry, and then let go of all of that and really feel the movement, it's pure magic. There's nothing else like it.

In college, and by college, I mean community college AKA the place I found my skinny poor ass after high school, I discovered Modern Dance. Not Contemporary, that came later. But, Modern. You know, Twyla Tharp, Martha Graham, Merce Cunningham, Alvin Ailey. All these greats influenced what I discovered from one of the most influential women in my life and my favorite dance teacher of all time. She taught me that dance was more than the movement, it was passion and breath and feeling and music (and technique and strength and practicing until your feet fall off and your legs are covered in bruises and your heart is going to pop out of your chest. It's fucking fantastic.). Those years I discovered that being a true dancer meant inhaling the music and the exhalation is dance. Poetic right? It is. It feels like you are living poetry in each tilt, each contraction, each leap.

And it's a well known fact that dancers fall into two categories: turners and leapers. I was a natural leaper. I think that should tell you a lot about my personality. I love nothing more than the height and rush of flying through the air. I was damn good back then. I think had I applied myself, I really could have danced professionally. But, that's not the road I took and I refuse to play the "what if" game. No one is turning back the clock. And that's okay.

I couldn't find a picture of me dancing, so this one will have to suffice. This is a dancer from the Alvin Ailey Dance Company and this just rocks my world:

But good god do I miss it! Cut to 10 years later. I've danced on and off over the years, added Salsa and Hip Hop to my repertoire, dance Contemporary in France, bounced in and out of ballet and jazz classes. But, the truth is, I'm getting old. Don't groan. Okay, yes, 29 is young is regular land. But for a dancer, I'm ancient. Professionals are becoming choreographers or are planning their teaching careers at my age. And at no point have I come close to that. So what is an aging dancer to do? Classes for people my age are a mishmash of levels and are either asinine and boring (I mean, I'd still like to be challenged, even though my legs just don't go as high as they used to) or are half-empty and get canceled. If I want a harder class, I may have to take with kids half (or more) my age and that's if I can find one which fits in my work schedule. Oh, and did I mention I live in a small town?

Just give me few more minutes of bitching please.

When I lived in Hollywood, I didn't enjoy dance classes, though they were plenty challenging and easy to find. It was extremely competitive and non-collaborative. And that just wasn't an environment I felt creative in. And yeah sure, I wasn't there to be "discovered." I didn't care about Ms. Spears' casting for a new music video. I just wanted to dance. And I saw a lot more cat fights than I did dancing, I tell you. I eventually found a home in a hip hop class that a choreographer friend taught at a gym. And even that was unnerving because the fabulously flaming hot gay men would stand around watching you. I never felt fatter. But I had fun and, I think, that is ultimately the point.

But, I think that I thought I'd have an easier time transitioning to a small town. Perhaps I'd find a studio with heart and collaboration. Right? Well, it's just not that easy. But, every place has its own challenges. And I struggle every day with how to keep dance in my life. So what is an aging dancer to do?

I really don't know.