Let's Dance

As all of you know, or can predict by my tendencies to fall down randomly or flail my arms like a blind pelican, I am no dancer by any means. My body just doesn't move like I want it to. It's like my brain tells my feet to move to the beat, one shimmy to the left and my feet rebel. It's a messed up situation.

Either way, dancing to me, and 99.9% of the world, is an expression of emotion.

Angry? I'm going to power thrash and head bang till every ounce of aggression is just a headache and minor neck injury away.

Depressed? Watch me emo sway back and forth to some Elliot Smith. Hands to the side, head down, feet shuffling out the pain.

Happy? Let's freak out with a ton of Britney Spears-esque jumps and a grand ball gown spin around via Princess Diaries.

Bladder full? There's an app... er... dance for that.

Lustful/Crushing/In Love? Even though I am more likely to injure my partner, slow dancing is my favorite. An ex and I used to slow dance in the middle of my dorm room without any music just because we could.

Of course, I've mastered some standard dances in my time- the lawn mower, the refrigerator, the grocery shopper. Sometimes, when I've stretched, I can do the sprinkler or the worm. I like it when my dances are a reflection of the true human spirit or the chores we endure on the weekends.

That being said, I under only nagging circumstances dance in public. You wanna see me bust a move? Ask for a private show, buddy, cause home girl dont do that. As I said early, I am a wreck of a dancer. A Lucy Ricardo of the dance floor. Two left feet, hands, arms, face, hips, etc.

Gerry Fleck: I can't dance, I can't dance, I've got two left feet!
Cookie Fleck: I thought he was kidding.
Gerry Fleck: But I wasn't. I was born with two left feet.

But this week, I went to DanceDance PartyParty, a dance "class" for women only. Basically, it's a full hour of dancing non-stop. There are no dance rules, no overly energetic Barbie Dolls to mimic and follow. The lights are dim, there's no talking, and the music is picked by one of the session goers. All you have to do is let go, turn off your brain, and dance.

(WATCH THE DDPP MOVIE!)

My experience was amazing. There were about 20 girls in a small, traditional dance studios. Each claimed a spot on the floor and laid their water bottles and changes of clothes next to them. The den mom took my money and I chatted with some of the more outgoing ladies. There were grown women in their 40s to teenagers in homecoming dresses. Some looked like professional ballet dancers with tiny, delicate bodies, while the rest of us ranged from normal to Amazonian. There was an instant comfort level just in the diversity of the room.

When the session started, the DJ introduced her playlist, the den mom turned off the lights and reminded us of the no talking and NO JUDGEMENT rule, and we began to stretch. The first and last songs are warm ups and cool downs and the music was "Beautiful Girl" and a Moby song. Then the playlist begins to blast in to KISSFM tunes, some old Janet Jackson, and a couple of other tunes I had not heard of.

At first, you feel so silly. Even though you can only make out figures of the other dancers in the dark, it is uneasy to just let yourself go. I took the cop-0ut by closing my eyes and turning towards walls and corners. About two songs in, I was totally in to it and I could easily drop all insecurities by feeling free to move through the room, winding my way through the girls as they equally flailed and jumped to a Lady Gaga song.

About half way through, I could not believe how much I was sweating... I would equate it to running about 2 miles or a full hour with Jillian Michaels.

But as I left the studio, I felt something totally different compared to leaving the other classes I take... I felt totally alive and in person. I felt a strange euphoria take over my exhausted body. It certainly wasn't just the endorphins. It was a spiritual awaking one gets when he or she learns to let go. In all my years of meditation and yoga, I have never felt anything remotely like that.

So, maybe to find yourself, to let go of your insecurities, and to express your bottled up emotions all it takes is an hour in a dark studio with a bunch of like-minded gals. At least, this time, no one was hurt.

In Rainbows

I've had an absolutely fantastic weekend. After having nothing to do at my job besides fret over what insurance plan I was going to pick and how to adjust my World Cup table, I was so glad for the weekend to come. I spent pretty much all of it with B, exploring my new neighborhood. The RP has great potential and this apartment is shaping out nicely now that I finally found time and motivation to unpack all of my crap. (ok, I might still have a box or two in my backseat!)

On Friday, we found a bar. Nothing exciting and no drinks quite as enticing as my beloved gummy bear at the Elgin Public House. We did get to watch the most uncomfortable wedding anniversary party ever...

Saturday was all about the heartbreak. My poor USMNT couldn't pull off another miracle and make it through to the quarters. I am proud they got through their rounds, but their play has been somewhat uninspired since they won CONCACAF. Unfortunately, unlike the Cubs, I cant say "next year." I get the four year rub. We made up for my heartache with long islands... lots and lots of LONG ISLANDS. Mixed with piano bars and a cute double date, it was all downhill from there. Ask KStrong and B... and everyone else I managed to dial or text.

I luckily woke up today with no hang over in time to go to the Pride Parade. Last year, my dad and Melanie came down and I attempted to find them in a massive sea of sweaty rainbow faces. This year, I spent the 2+ hour parade in B's brother's apartment with his family.

All I've got to say, and this may be the most meaningful thing I've got at this hour, is that love is love. It shows no preference to age, race, gender, creed, experience, clothing taste, money, etc. And I cant be any more proud that my generation is the one that continually accepts that. Every generation has its "cause." This one cant be anymore ours. And what could be more nobler than fighting for love?

And that's it for me. I promised three blogs a week. Let's just pretend I finished this 20 minutes ago.

Hand Holding

This morning, while walking to my L stop, I saw maybe the cutest old couple walking hand in hand. It was 7:30 in the morning and I was still dreaming of gnomes eating my brains (true nightmare), so I really think that the lack of sleep mixed with the lobotomy performed on me made my heart flutter a bit more when I passed them up.

Maybe it was because I kept replaying that Zales commercial (shout out to my mom who works there) in my spinning head. Have I been that commercial exposed that I now look at two old people strolling as a sign that I need to get to the nearest jewelry store and spend 2 months salary on myself?

God. I hope not.

I could easily write about engagements, but I will spare you that for at least another 2 years. Instead, I'm going to present an ode to holding hands. Even though the Beatles beat me to it, one of my favorite movies mentions it, this article proves it scientifically, and Shakespeare made it famous, I still feel that nothing express romantic interest better than a good hand holding:

Oh, fourth grade love...

The kind that bewilders and excites.

How do I long to press

My fingers with frail might.

It's your sweaty palm, dear

That conjures mental mess

The way your eyes begin to peer

And how your arms will steer

Your dirty digits

To my lotioned fidgets

Embracing one last round.

A perfect fit.

A witty quip.

We walk hand to hand

Ground to ground.

Now, I will admit that I hate writing poetry, but that did incite some little tingles of remembering the first boy I ever walked hand in hand with. We strolled through the mall, rocking our arms back and forth wildly, until we reached the movie theater where our hands didn't depart unless to grab more popcorn.

As I've become older, my hand holding has become more meaningful. I'm one of those girls who will linger until the other one pulls away or falls asleep. I believe in reading palms as a romantic gesture, even if it is just jest. I get goosebumps when someone offers theirs to mine without me going in for the kill first. And frankly, holding hands turns me on much more than a steamy make out session.

Plus, you cant fall down alone when you hold hands. The reciprocated either has to catch you or take the fall with you.