This is Spinal Tap...er...Sarah?

I'm returning to the black and white era. Or shall I say beyond black...er....pastel black? Anyway, this is Sarah Jones, not Spinal Tap. Spinal Tap is much more amusing and has british accents, and foul language. (Nina, you MADE me watch this movie, remember?)

So, the picture. This is a self imposed therapeutic treatment I am trying. One where I expose myself to the world instead of ripping up or deleting all pictures of me. And therefore proof of my existence. I am pretty sure that I didn't exist between the years 1999 and 2001 as there is little or no documentation of that time. And so an effort to become less vain? Does this make sense to anyone else?

*I'm feeling much better, but still medicated and my antibiotics make me dizzy. In case you are wondering where this is all coming from.

And so, if you would all assist me in this effort and not give me compliments, pity or otherwise, as it is not obligatory. Okay really, I have just been feeling yucky due to all this sickness and am trying to remind myself that on some occasions, I feel, dare I say, pretty?

I had an epiphany this weekend. One that I am a little ashamed of...so confessional....

I am a sucker for any movie involving dance.

It can be the worst film ever made, and I will be in a state of complete bliss while watching it. Of course there are wonderful films such as Strictly Ballroom, and then less wonderful ones entitled Dance with Me. This is what drives me to excited anticipation for such movies as Take the Lead (which I saw this weekend), but spans as far as Bring It On, and explains my giddy await of Stick It.

So as I watched Antonio Banderas teach troubled urban students how to ballroom dance with their own style of course (I especially like the ones that involve troubled teens, or an ugly duckling) I started to wonder what my problem is. I love to dance. There are pink leotard, purple legwarmer laden home videos that attest to this fact. And yet, I never do. Because I'm not into the whole club scene let alone the lds single dance scene. Unless I am home alone. For shame.

There was one line in the movie, where the awkward ugly duckling girl sighs as she confesses that maybe she just wasn't made to dance? And I felt her anguish. But wise latin lover dance instructor asks her do you like to dance? Well then you were made to dance. So on a scale 1-10, exactly how pathetic is it that I left the theater inspired? And how great is the possibility that this was merely induced by a myriad of medications? In the end, I care not, but am determined to enroll myself in dance classes. Possibly ballroom (which can be scary if you don't have a self selected partner...these are community classes....SLC is a little more diverse than you might think) but most preferably, an ultra improvisational urban class like the one the ballerina sneaks off to in Center Stage. Shall we dance? And what are the odds that I find someone to dance with that is 1) taller than me 2) preferably heterosexual and 3) not wearing one long dangly earring with a cross and obsessed with Sarah McLachlan, or the guy that starts the dance apologizing for his sweat soaked shirt, or a 45 year old Bolivian who is half my stature. (Seriously, I think these are the last people I danced with. Bless there little hearts.)

I can't remember where I was going with all this, except that I wanted to mention that when I was half there at this meeting yesterday for what is promising to be GREAT institute activity (Im trying my best to be positive about something I want no part in), the dear sir that was directing us to promote said activity in our wards advised that we do so energetically and not to take our prozac that morning. I literally bit my tongue in order to hold back a "too late buddy." It just makes some people uncomfortable.

Ps...For those concerned for my well being. I am doing much better and will soon be off the meds and back to my regular self. Whatever that is.