"Having the time of your life..."
I miss it.
I miss dancing - not the barre exercises, though I miss their affects on my body - the center exercises, the grande jetes, glissades, and assembles, the pique turns, pirouettes and foutees, the tour jetes which I mastered before anyone else and that one twisting leap of which I can never remember the name. I dance ballet around the house.
When I babysat Katie the other week, I taught her the Four Swans - it was fun.
It isn't ballet I turn to when I'm stressed, though. Backstage before Writer's Cafe, when I was nervously anxious, I was clicking my heels to what little flamenco I know. It's much more satisfying. One day, I would like to take a class.
Today, for some reason completely unbeknownst to me, my fourth period class (TV/Film, which we're really not doing work in, though Gina and I are trying our best to storyboard our movie without the help of our other two group members) got shipped upstairs to Ms. Rosenthal's room. Roberto was going to teach us all - and Ms. Rosenthal's class - how to salsa. Roberto, who graduated from CAPA last year, is the gayest gay man you'll ever meet. Freshman year, the the Neshaminy picnic, he was dancing in a neon yellow speedo. Somethings are just wrong; that is one of them. But lord, can he dance.
And I danced, too, doing my best not to slip in purple flip-flops. It was fun, though - so much fun. I wasn't sure I could do it at the beginning, but I only wish I'd been in better shoes. I love it. I love dancing. I've realized this. I realized it in eighth grade at the cast party for Pocketful of Rhymes; I realized this at the Soph Hop last year at the same time as I realized I couldn't dance; and I realized this again during the summer, dancing at midnight on the front lawn on the last day at Thomas More with Geno, Jake, and Jessica while the Italians smoked in the background and the teachers kept telling us to turn down the music.
I don't know what it is about dancing that pulls me in. It just does, and I won't complain about that. This year, I'm having Vicky teach me to dance before prom, anyway, so hopefully I won't make nearly as much a fool of myself as I did last year (but I was a happy fool, a silly-happy-selfconscious fool).
And every Wednesday in May...
from three to four o'clock after school...
Roberto is giving the junior girls belly dancing lessons for prom.
I miss dancing - not the barre exercises, though I miss their affects on my body - the center exercises, the grande jetes, glissades, and assembles, the pique turns, pirouettes and foutees, the tour jetes which I mastered before anyone else and that one twisting leap of which I can never remember the name. I dance ballet around the house.
When I babysat Katie the other week, I taught her the Four Swans - it was fun.
It isn't ballet I turn to when I'm stressed, though. Backstage before Writer's Cafe, when I was nervously anxious, I was clicking my heels to what little flamenco I know. It's much more satisfying. One day, I would like to take a class.
Today, for some reason completely unbeknownst to me, my fourth period class (TV/Film, which we're really not doing work in, though Gina and I are trying our best to storyboard our movie without the help of our other two group members) got shipped upstairs to Ms. Rosenthal's room. Roberto was going to teach us all - and Ms. Rosenthal's class - how to salsa. Roberto, who graduated from CAPA last year, is the gayest gay man you'll ever meet. Freshman year, the the Neshaminy picnic, he was dancing in a neon yellow speedo. Somethings are just wrong; that is one of them. But lord, can he dance.
And I danced, too, doing my best not to slip in purple flip-flops. It was fun, though - so much fun. I wasn't sure I could do it at the beginning, but I only wish I'd been in better shoes. I love it. I love dancing. I've realized this. I realized it in eighth grade at the cast party for Pocketful of Rhymes; I realized this at the Soph Hop last year at the same time as I realized I couldn't dance; and I realized this again during the summer, dancing at midnight on the front lawn on the last day at Thomas More with Geno, Jake, and Jessica while the Italians smoked in the background and the teachers kept telling us to turn down the music.
I don't know what it is about dancing that pulls me in. It just does, and I won't complain about that. This year, I'm having Vicky teach me to dance before prom, anyway, so hopefully I won't make nearly as much a fool of myself as I did last year (but I was a happy fool, a silly-happy-selfconscious fool).
And every Wednesday in May...
from three to four o'clock after school...
Roberto is giving the junior girls belly dancing lessons for prom.