Saturday passed too fast, I did half of a third of the things I didn't want to do and none of the things I needed to do. I have not been sleeping well and the half moon hangs, not apparent whether it is coming or going.


Sunday fair Sunday I danced. The workshop was a good blend of solid motion and anticipated motion, the point of dreaming in between where the hips twist and shift and then the feet draw their triplet step in an infinity pattern on the floor. The song choreographed was binta baladi, or girl of the country, she's the best, she's strong and pretty. In the heat of the dance studio every beautiful woman of every size and shape and color was rising and turning and spreading her arms then spinning around again in unison, all of us panting and sweating and smiling.


Believe it or not, I am notorious for being the class clown. Never in my life have I gained this distinction. I was forever the mouse in the back corner who fucked up the grade curve. But in dance class I am the one who makes the faces and the tension-breaking sighs and the exuberant motion and laughter. I think I do this as an invitation to anyone, come talk to me. For whatever reason, be it my familiarity with the teacher, whom I've known longer than anyone else in the class at this point, or my mannerism, which I have heard is unapproachable, I like to break people's perceptions of me.


I've gotten so far past shyness it's hilarious to me to think how worried about other individuals' opinions I once felt. It's not callousness on my part, just the ability to laugh in the face of cold shoulders. Haughtiness is unbecoming and I'll poke you in the belly, better believe it. Dancing has given me an amazing level of confidence blended with humility-- we all every one of us make mistakes. Callouses on the soles are much better than callouses on the soul.