Dance One, Looks Seven

I haven't taken a dance class in over three years.  Before then, I was a fairly good dancer.  Admittedly nothing spectacular, but I had rhythm, some solid technique, a modicum of style, and could count to eight.  Not bad.

As part of my new regime I took stock and realized it was time to dust off my La Duca's (AKA tennis shoes) and finally partook in my first dance class after spending the last three years primarily singing and acting.   With a painted smile not unlike a geisha and a faint remembrance of how to move I walked into Lori Leshner's Musical Theater Jazz class at CAP21.  Let me preface this by saying I used to dance all the time.  Every day for at least five years.  

I was a trainwreck.

Nothing worked.  Any technique I once had seemed completely out of reach; all my flexibility was out the window.  My brain couldn't string sequences of movement together.  My body couldn't relate to the steps, and any muscle memory of basic dance vocabulary was pretty much nil.  And I loved it.  I was so bad, but I was so excited that I had actually started to dance again that I didn't care how embarrassing I was.  And embarrassing is definitely the word for it. 

I guess you start somewhere.  And it's always harder than you remember, but more rewarding than you anticipated.  I'm going back next week.

I've got a year....

Sorry Tina Fey, I ganked your line.

Seriously, how can three words completely encapsulate a mindset?  How did she reach into my foggy brain and pick out exactly what I've been trying to articulate without having met me?  Damn Tina, you're good.  Or omnipotent. Or Voldemort.

So here's the whole reason for this shebang.  It's been a tough year, emotionally, financially, and spiritually.  That in turn has made me become a person I'm not really familiar with, and quite frankly, I don't like all that much.  Who wants to be with a whiny, morose, lazy, self absorbed person?  And on top of that, who wants to be with him 24/7?  You know what it feels like to bring this asshole home every night and then have to sleep with him?  To quote Sophia Petrillo, "It ain't pretty."

Which now brings me to the purpose of this slice of internet pie.  I'm holding myself accountable.  Taking charge of my life, my destiny, and my wallet (ugh...).  If that sounds too hippy-dippy, crunchy granola for ya, well tough.  I'm not one to stand idly by while I turn into a complacent New York gay.  That cardigan doesn't fit, is not my color, and worst of all doesn't show off my arms.  So he's going downstairs to the recycle bin (someone, I'm sure, will want that cardigan), and I'm reassessing the way I see the world and my place in it.  Remembering the awe that I once had (and mostly still do at times) to see all the beauty and passion and humor around me.  And I'm asking you to hold me accountable, because frankly I slip up alot.  I'm not perfect, and I can't be.  But I'm gonna make a contribution come Hell or Tina Turner...I mean high water.

I have one year.  That's the goal.  We start today.