On Monday of last week, the hot water heater in my old apartment broke, flooding the whole place. Nothing quite like the smell of wet carpet padding mixed with fresh dirt, lemme tell you. (There’s also nothing quite like locating two really freaked out cats and shoving them into carriers.) On Tuesday, the Significant Other hit a gigantic pothole that blew a tire and cracked the wheel, and as a result he had to borrow my car for a day before he could get a rental.
Monday and Tuesday nights were spent at a hotel. Getting two stressed cats out from underneath a hotel bed isn’t much easier than getting them out of a pile of furniture and boxes, but I just couldn’t handle the guilt factor of shutting them in the bathroom for two days.
On Wednesday, a small miracle happened when the furniture delivery guys and the Comcast guy showed up at the new apartment on time. On Thursday, there was great panicking and packing, as the old apartment was a freaking mess and the movers were supposed to come Friday afternoon. On Friday, the movers showed up over an hour late. I couldn’t trap the cats in the new apartment’s bathroom for their safety as I’d planned, but they ended up being safe where they were because they’d gotten themselves wedged under the couch and would move for no one, not even a person with wet food and kitty treats. (This was OK by me, as I was also feeling increasingly bad over the number of times I’d pushed them into small enclosed spaces for reasons they could not comprehend.) On Friday night, a guest came to visit and help us unpack. I couldn’t find the sheets for the guest bed.
On Saturday, the Winter Showcase happened, I think*. My hair was bad and my dress was wrinkled, but I made it and had some makeup on my face, dagnabit, and I considered that nothing short of a victory.
My primary goal was to just let it go, minus the overdone song. Don’t freaking worry.
- There will be no worrying about slipping on the floor.
- There will be no thought expended on mobile mucus.
- There will be no concern about looking stupid, in part because it’s way too late for that, and in part because we did some silly things on purpose.
- There will be no fear of forgetting bits and pieces, because Instructorman totally forgets things sometimes, therefore, so can I!
Thus deprived of activity to keep itself occupied, my mind manufactured a sudden, inexplicable fear that my right asset had somehow magically bounced out of my dress. About halfway through the roughly two minute routine, I suddenly had to will myself to NOT look at my right boob. Paranoia whispered, “just do a little peek to check that it is in fact in the dress.” I thought to myself that if something HAD popped out upstairs, there would’ve been some audience gasping going on, so no, I won’t look! Paranoia then hissed, “but maybe they’re being polite.”
Okay, fine then, brain! New rule #5: You are not wearing some Latin or rhythm dancing getup, so your breasts are still in your dress and you will not be paranoid about it.
In some respects, I think the routine went better this time than others have in the past. I did okay at being a little less stiff when we started off and I think my smile was more genuine and less frightening, but fighting the brain-boob battle did cause me to regress somewhat in that regard. Repeating “YOU ARE FINE. YOUR RACK IS NOT OUT FOR DISPLAY. STOP THINKING ABOUT IT” takes up brainpower that would otherwise be devoted to “YOU ARE FINE. REMEMBER TO MOVE YOUR ARMS OR SOMETHING.”
Because of Thanksgiving, the water heater fiasco and moving, we couldn’t practice very much prior to the Winter Showcase. Alas, as a result, there was a point in the routine where I never quite got the rhythm down, and of course when push came to shove I messed it up. It was at one of the points where I was dancing next to Instructorman, so he could neither drag me into doing the right thing nor show me – I was kind of on my own. I tried catching up and eventually did, but the song we used was pretty dang fast, so it felt like the proverbial eternity.
Of course, since I screwed up, Instructorman then screwed up! At that point, I figured I would just keep hopping around and at some point Instructorman would manage to grab me and get me on the same track, which was what eventually happened. I suspect this part of the routine looked like this, but instead of Kermit, imagine me in a blue dress:
Afterwards was a bit strange. We’d been corralled in a waiting room to which we returned after dancing. We were able to see the stage via a live feed, so the others would applaud and congratulate those who came in after their dance. They barely noticed my return. My theory is that my epic flailing was considered unimpressive. Either that, or it’s because I am neither new (don’t need to be encouraged to continue) nor familiar (don’t need to be encouraged to stay friendly). Because of the move and the need to save money, I haven’t been spending very much time at the studio as of late. I’ve only been doing one private lesson per week, had dropped group classes completely, and attended the weekly parties only once or twice a month.
*There’s little in the way of photo evidence, so I fail under the “pics or it didn’t happen” statute of internet law. I wasn’t impressed with the photo set I received from the Spring Showcase, most of which were unflattering (there’s a reason I only posted four) and of the back of my head. I really disliked the “vignette” treatment they used (you add a slight gradient that darkens the image around the edges, causing the lightened area to draw attention to the photo’s subject). It was a cool idea years ago, but now it strikes me as a trick to compensate for weak composition, bad camera settings or suboptimal pictures in general. I guess it is less lol-worthy than lens flares …
There’s not much more in the way of video evidence, sadly. Supposedly they should be out this week. We’ll see.