A New Day

Many thanks to those of you readers sending supportive text messages, emails, and general love over the telephone lines. There were plenty, and as a result, I feel like less of a loser. Today was just fine, in fact. I was rushing to get new cell phone service and wasted most of the day, but it was saved by the eventual success in the unemployment office and a GREAT documentary ("Mad Hot Ballroom").

So, dancing. I have always wanted to dance. I am so tall that I have never really looked stealthy doing anything--softball, basketball, or even walking. But I make up for my lack of grace with sheer power and results, you know? I ain't no point guard, effotlessly rushing up the court with supreme ball-handling skills a-shinin', but I can knock the shit out of any other girl fighting me for a rebound.

Dancing has always haunted me.

I love dancing. I love the thought of two people gliding on the shiny ballroom floor, arms raised, faces glowing, and hips shaking. The thought of a man's hand on my lower back makes me smile. I even love skirts that swing gently in the electric air. Everthing about dancing interests me. But I don't know how to do it.

I have always dated men who despise dancing, or at least refuse to take lessons just for the fuck of it. They are the opposite of interested, and will most likely avoid it even on their wedding day given half an opportunity. I want to feel beautiful, gaze in the eyes of my special man friend, and shake my ass all at the same time. Is that so much to ask?

So, maybe one of the things I will do is find a goddamn dance partner and take a class. For once in this life, I will do this. I will cha cha. I will waltz. I will merengue all the way to the opposite coast. I will wear that swingy skirt and I will not feel uncoordinated. I will sparkle and shine and just once, the world will understand that I am a white girl with rhythm.

take a bow. g