If you’ve been with me for a while you know I love to dance.
I took formal lessons as a wee tiny preschool kid. I hated ballet and loved jazz and modern.
I am an avid bootyshaker. Put on music I like and my ass is moving.
I love bellydance. I’ve done a bit, I have instructional DVDs.
I just love all the dancing.
My relationship with my love of movement started when I was about 13 and my breasts grew to a size that was uncontrollable. I did not have access to the most basic of bras and at one point was outgrowing them at a rate of two a month (yes going up at least one to two cup sizes a month) and everything hurt either physically (the weight of my actual breasts causing tissue damage etc) or emotionally (being bullied by everyone including teachers/adults) and I shut down any idea that I could move my body.
I remember watching the high school drill team practicing in the morning and yearning to do that as well. I made myself give it up.
Along with my run away tits, I gained quite a bit of weight. I believed if I was fat my boobs would be less noticeable.
It was terrible.
I got a breast reduction at 14 and movement opened back up to me. I was a cheerleader (yeah for real tho), I tried playing volleyball, I was on the drill team. I tried a lot of things.
What I did not have back was that freedom and joy with dance. If you are a lover of dance you know the feeling I’m talking about. Soaring, flying, feeling like the most beautiful thing ever.
I was still deeply self conscious and battling budding eating disorders and trying to preserve the veneer of self esteem I had.
There was no joy.
I did a little exotic dancing (not really legal but that’s a whole other story) I went clubbing a lot in my early 20s. I loved it. Often out at clubs after hours I was there again, feeling that beat in my hips and floating in that joyful feelings.
So let’s fast forward.
I’m closing on 40.
I have shitty knees.
Sometimes I find myself compulsively watching dance videos. I learn (ish) new steps. I twerk at home alone in my bathroom though not well.
I think about sexy dancing to music.
Sometimes I practice hip shimmies while I stand waiting for the bus.
And that asshole voice in my head starts in.
I’m too fat.
I’m too old.
The fuck am I doing.
Rinse repeat until my joy is pretty gone.
I vacillate between wanting to give it a shot and feeling like there are eleven million reasons why I shouldn’t. I hate that I have so much baggage with this.
If I start bellydancing at night at home, would I be okay?
What if adding dancing to my daily approximately 30-45 minutes of exercise would it change my body?
Could I handle that?
I get scared and then I sort of wilt.
I tuck the desire, no fuck desire it is beyond that.
I am YEARNING to dance again.
I want my legs to be big and hard as stone again. I miss almost kicking myself in the forehead, I miss feeling a slickness in the movement of my hips and having that communicating with the divine through the sway of my hips feeling.
I know it got a little woo at the end but I do feel something divine in moving my body.
And then there’s those fears.
I don’t know what to do really.
I don’t want to take “dance” classes that are basically a thin veneer for lose as much weight as possible.
I don’t want to spend money to be miserable.
I want to be a wee fat dancer.
I promised myself some time ago that I wouldn’t pass 40 without trying again. Letting go of the fears and doing the things I love to do.
I am going to try starting with a flexibility thing. Try to ease some of my joint problems with limbering up.
And then dance?
I hope so.
I want to try and there will probably be tears and angst.
I hope as I get more bendy there will be a release of some sort. An ascension.
Sorry. Got woo.
Here enjoy one of my favorite bootyshake songs. Bojangles by Pitbull ft Yin Yang twins.
Shake what you got how you can.
I’m gonna do the same.