It All Started with a Shoe

They were light and delicate and palest shade of pink. There was a tiny elastic band that connected each side, and a dainty bow near the spot where my toes slid by. I wore them everyday for a month, and was careful to make sure that not so much as a speck of dirt tainted the sweet smelling leather.

My mom bought me my first pair of ballet shoes the summer before I started kindergarten. Saturday mornings, I would wriggle into my tights and leotard and carefully place my shoes on my feet. The next 30 minutes were spent at the barre and sashaying my way across the dance studio floor. I loved it.

On a shopping trip with my grandmother a couple years later, I found a new love. It came to me via patent leather and a thick black ribbon tie. I would heel-and-toe across my family's kitchen floor, much to the chagrin of my mother. Tap shoes aren't easy on kitchen tile.

A few years after that, I graduated to Pointe class, and got my first pair of Pointe shoes. Even though they added six inches to my frame, they made my toes bleed. I was used to the structure of ballet class, but Pointe took things to a new level. Sometimes, I wanted just to dance. No worrying about form, feet placement, or the time it took to wrap my feet before class started.

I was lamenting to a friend about my predicament, and she recommended I try taking in a modern dance class. And a few days later I was just dancing. Gone were the itchy tights, wedgie-inducing leotards and arabesque-ing until my form was perfect. Instead, I was with a group of misfits who wore what they wanted, danced because it felt good, and had nothing. on. their. feet.

No shoes. Nothing to tie on between classes. No toes to wrap, no Advil to take, no plies to correct. Sure, form was important, but so was feeling the music. It didn't matter the angle at which my leg was bent, or whether turns were well-spotted. I didn't have to worry about Buffalo Time Steps or fifth position placement. I was more aware of my body and how it moved. My moves were large and expressive, instead of dainty and controlled. I loved every minute of it. And no shoes.

I started taking a hip-hop class this week, and I got a little glimpse of that feeling again. Sometimes, I have remind myself how important it is to move. The tough part of being so conscious of my body is that I forget that I'm actually good at dance. It's familiar, and comfortable, and for just a few minutes I forget about how much I try to appear as small as possible. For a few minutes, I am shoeless.

Paper Thin

Dear Awesome Neighbor,

I just wanted to thank you and your dogs for waking me up at 2:30AM this morning. It was very refreshing to be stunned into coherence by a shrieking puppy and the slamming of your back door. Additionally, I appreciate the 45-minute coughing session that ensued mere inches from our shared wall thereafter.

Perhaps tomorrow morning, you could turn on your stereo around 3AM. Or maybe, you could run the length of your living space while whistling the Leave it to Beaver theme song. Heck, who am I kidding? You don't even need to be that creative. A little stomping and yelling at your undeservedly sweet dogs should do the trick.

While I realize that my difficulties in falling and staying asleep and your general neighborly awesomeness are mutually exclusive, it would be great if you could muster up a grain of consideration for those who sleep during the hours of 11PM-5AM. It's only a six-hour window where I ask that you lower your obnoxious quotient by a few clicks.

So, as I sludge my way through my grogginess and sleep-deprived-grump during work today, I will raise my coffee cup in the hopes that you have as productive a day as I surely will. Fucker.

Truly Yours,

Exhausted

Contradiction in Terms

So, I recently blogged about a new dating show, More to Love, and thought I had moved on to bigger and better things, until I stumbled upon this over at 5 Resolutions. And my frustration came back full-force.

I had read some pretty stellar reviews about Drop Dead Diva in the few entertainment magazines I subscribe to. I was kind of curious about it, so when I saw the first few episodes were hanging out in my friend's On Demand queue, I thought I would check it out. I didn't even make it through the first half-hour of the show. Somewhere between the platter of donuts that Brooke Elliott's (Jane) character eyes lustily, and the Lane Bryant jokes, I fell off the grid.

I remember seeing Margaret Cho live a few years ago, and it was right after she had gone through a significant weight loss. She joked about the fact that she had lost the weight by eating a diet of mainly persimmons and exercising to the point of obsession. The climax occurred when she literally pooped herself while stuck in traffic on her way home from work in L.A. Cho hammed it up, made the facial expressions that helped bring her to fame, and we all had a great laugh and went home. I had since read all of Cho's interviews where she talks about body image and the hope for an eventual migration to body acceptance for all body types. And I bought it.

So, imagine my surprise when I check out Cho's latest project, and I am slapped in the face with stereotype upon stereotype. The fat chick can't resist a donut. Hmm, why is that familiar? Why does it seem like a regression to watch what appear to be confident, capable women, exploit some shortcoming that is not really based in truth?

I think Jane could still be effective without playing the victim to food. I wonder if perhaps exploring some of the real food issues that women face might actually be easier to relate to, however less, ahem, appetizing it might be. What I would ultimately like to see is a strong, sexy, confident, and yes, chubby woman who isn't a victim. A woman who usually has the whole wheat toast and apple for breakfast, but sometimes indulges in an eclair. A woman who is not thin, but not necessarily unhealthy.

Would that be so hard to swallow?

Post-Matriculation Booty Shakin'

During my college days, I was a bit of a party-music connoisseur. I had an extensive collection of CDs, and was usually the primary resource for any of the music played during my sorority's house parties. And I loved it. I would spend most of my post-tuition earnings on the latest and greatest in hip-hop, dance, and a little pop. On Thursday nights, my roommate and I would rock out to my latest finds. We’d even turn on the Christmas lights we’d strewn about the room in an attempt to lure boys into our room. Not that we needed the “mood lighting.” It was after all, college.

Then life happened. College ended (the fun years anyway), post-college break-ups occurred, and my life as a corporate drone started. Not only were my fun party CDs irrelevant, they just weren’t as cool to listen to. Somehow, sitting in traffic after a 10-hour day, feeling my Spanx cut off all circulation to my lower extremities voided any need to play The Thong Song. Instead, I made friends with Elvis Costello, The Cure, and Dashboard Confessional.

But every once in awhile, when I least expect it, I’ll hear something that takes me right back to those days. And there I am, shaking my ass on the dance floor of our neighboring fraternity house. A never-ending supply of screwdriver drinks in my hand, my feet in the highest heels I could find, my lips never un-glossed and ever ready for any potential 2AM make-out sessions.

This weekend, my friend K-Ro came out for a visit. We were bouncing around town, when LMFAO’s I’m in Miami, Bitch came on the radio. We both stopped mid-sentence, and I immediately turned up the radio. The song has been in constant replay since that moment. Sometimes I can overlook all of the things that I consider to make ‘good’ music, and just enjoy something that makes me want to get out of my seat and dance.

I got a plan, what’s your cell?
We playin’ naked Twister back in my hotel…

Retaining Walls

“Hey, do you remember that guy we ran into when we were downtown a few weeks ago? He was tall, with dark ey-”

“Scott?”

“Uh, yeah. How did you remember that?”

Shrug.

I have always considered myself as someone with an above average memory. Sure, as I get closer to my 30s, and have to memorize industry-specific acronyms, website passwords, and friend’s birthdays, I am not as sharp as I used to be. But for the most part, I have the uncanny ability to hold on to faces, names, events, and places easily.

My friend L doesn’t remember anything. She spent most of our high school graduation leaned over, asking me to identify three-quarters of our graduating class, most of whom she had known since pre-pubescence. She forgets to put her car in park before turning it off. At no time can she name the title, or any starring actors of a movie she saw within the week. And she doesn’t care. She laughs off her ineptitude at memorizing names. She gives rap songs ridiculously inappropriate titles because she thinks it’s funny that she doesn’t know the real titles. She spends a good deal of her driving time getting lost. But she never skips a beat.

Then there’s me. I hold on to everything. Every detail. Every forehead crease, wrinkled skirt, handsome face, or peculiar odor. I fast forward and rewind, like a little mini-film that plays on repeat in my brain. The outfit my last manager wore on the day of my job interview five years ago? Got it. The cost of my dance costumes for my competition recital in 8th grade? Don’t even have to check the receipt. The painted-walls smell of the hallway in my freshman dorm corridor where I stood the moment I laid eyes on my first love? Yes, indeed.

And usually, this memory of mine is a great tool. My mom calls me after her church service to tell me about a childhood friend’s parent that she ran into. I can always recite their names so my mom won’t be embarrassed during her next encounter. I can remember where the car was parked, right down to the crack in the pavement next to the left rear wheel. My high school speech teacher would be proud to know that I still can recite the poem Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout. Well, most of it anyway.

But sometimes, and what is becoming more than some times, I don’t want to remember. The way the wind was knocked out of me when I found out a rather crushing secret kept by a close friend? You can keep it. Hearing two grown women, who had purported to my be my friend only weeks before, say vile, sophomoric, and completely unoriginal things about me? Please burn the original and any copies.

It’s sort of like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. There is no way to erase bad memories, or chunks of memory, for convenience sake. Sure, a blow to the head might do some good, but that has potential of putting my motor-skills at risk. And the real catch when it comes to having an impeccable memory is that for all the fantastic, sunny skied, blue watered, sand-between-my-toes kinds of flashbacks, there are always a few spoilers.

So what then? Is there some sort of guide to pushing away everything bad that keeps me up at night? Isn’t repressing bad stuff just exacerbating the issue? Or is the solution to hold on to the good stuff nice and tight, but keep the bad stuff at bay? Not so much that it disappears, but just so that it’s not showing every half-hour on all screens within my brain? Maybe it’s better to address the big stuff, even if it drags on and closure seems just beyond the fingertips. Maybe being haunted by something so crisp, clear, and painfully present is a sign that I have yet to truly confront this stuff.

Because ultimately, I refuse to just start forgetting. Unlike my friend, I am not content to not remember. I like cataloging new faces. I enjoy the feeling I get when I smell that combination of sea salt, hot dogs, and freshly mowed grass. I like tracing my fingers along the skin of the person I love, and knowing there will be no surprises. I like to remember.

Long Overdue

So, I've been M.I.A. for awhile, and not the British she-rapper who almost dripped birthing fluids while performing at the Grammys. I mean out-of-pocket, indisposed, or otherwise engaged.

I mainly didn't write because it was like Lemony Snickets up in this piece for a few months, and I didn't feel like sharing bitter comentary about my life's shortcomings. I'm getting over all that, slowly...and not-so-surely.

There really is no point to this post, other than to dump a few meanderings I have been pondering over the past week. So, her goes.

• Why does Southwest airline only post flight information five - six months in advance? Ummm, hi. It is summertime and need to get my travel plans in order for the rest of 2009. Life does not end after Halloween.
• Eminem, I still love you. I am so sorry I doubted you for so long. Had you just told me you were holed-up in Detroit, nursing your addiction, I would have come to your rescue. And even brought you a strawberry Faygo to make it better.
• I am now StubHub's bitch. TicketsNow, you can take your tickets and do something highly depraved, profane, and painful.
• As if I needed another reason to love and spend all of my supplemental income at Target, the store has started carrying Soap & Glory products. I discovered this stuff on vacation in Canada awhile back, and I was hooked. But like all European-inspired products, it took four score and seven years to make it to the US, let alone the mid-south. But it was worth the wait.

My goal is to make these posts not as few and far between. So, to the four of you still reading this, cheers.

Piece-Mealing Metaphors

You know those times when things seem to just click together? Maybe everything is not perfect, but life hums on at just the right tune that if you could capture it on your digital camera, you wouldn't delete the picture for a couple years?

Yeah, me too.

Except there is sometimes this little thing. Or maybe it's a really big thing, disguised as a little thing. And maybe it's not in your face all the time. Maybe it's like a snag on your favorite sweater, that if you just leave it alone and don't pull that one teeny-tiny little thread, your sweater would remain intact for at least six more dry cleanings.

Perhaps it's that if you pull that little snag, you might be forced to see the demise of something you really love.

It might not even be that black-and-white. It might be this wonderful shade of grey. Not so grey that it envelops you and and makes you forget about any other color. Maybe it's invigorating, like mornings along the San Francisco Bay. It might just smooth out the sharp edges of things you would rather just leave undiscovered and lull you into a false sense of security the way four-wheel drive does to Midwesterners.

But you know, you always know, that like all things unpleasant, it will surface. And no amount of pink frosting, or perfectly sized jeans found on sale, or sleeping in on Saturdays will ever make it less sharp. Less devastating. Less not there.

Little boxes, on the hillside
Little boxes, made of ticky-tacky
Little boxes, on the hillside
Little boxes, just the same
There's a pink one, and a green one
A blue one, and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same

And the people in boxes, all went to the university
And they were put in boxes, and they all came out the same
And there's doctors and lawyers and business executives
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same