Thursday, May 01, 2008
I love to dance. LOOOOVVVVE it. At any given moment, I would rather be dancing than doing whatever I might be doing. I've loved it since I was little and my dance instructor chided me for not following the group. She did however applaud my, shall we say, creativity.
My family sometimes jokes that I got all the rhythm from our blood line. Which isn't true. I mean, Nina was a cheerleader and can dance with the best of them. I do however, perhaps, have a more natural inclination and obsession with moving my bootay.
I remember dancing around the kitchen in as a preteen, moving my hips to whatever music and my father sternly warning me not to do that in front of boys. Don't worry Dad. Boys didn't seem to notice me, and when they did I was oblivious. The perfect teenage daughter really. I should be cloned.
Anyway, it's a passion. It is my element. I never feel so uninhibited and free as when I am dancing to incredible beats. I don't get flustered. I don't care who's watching. I don't trip over my bashful words. When it comes to most physical activity I get self conscious for some reason and perpetuate my own clumsiness. Not when I dance. Something transcendent about it all. It's my therapy. Which is why I will be eternally grateful for genius friends who invented the weekly 45 minute dance party. This weekly seminar will be my sanity. So thank you. And keep it going.
I really need to get the home video of me dancing in my pink leotard with my ribbon dancer and post it on here. Really.