So . . . been a while since I posted here. Alot has happened, both in dance and the reality I am forced to live in whilst not obsessing over all things dance related.
The month of March flew by faster then it had any right too. It's been said that, for an Irish dancer, the month of March is like trial by fire, and that you can't truely boast about being a dancer until you've survived the multiple performance, etc. Well I did. Not saying I was any good, but I survived. Here is the break down;
- Mall Food Court Performance - Skipping over the fun highway conversations en route, and circling the parking garage for 20 minutes, the performance itself was . . . interesting. I learned alot. Like I need to pin my skirt to my shorts or else it rides way up. Also, that I need to wear shorts, cause otherwise it looks like my butt is eating my leotard, but that might just be TMI. Needless to say, it is gloriously unfair. I'm sure the 8 year olds don't have these problems. The dancing itself was ok. A few basic flubs I mostly managed to cover. There was of course that one though, sliding on the slick floor and nearly wiping the entire four hand out. But hey, our audience was mall employees, disinterested lawyers and this one flock of Indian business men who seemed befuddled by our shenanigans, so really, it was ok.
-Capital Parade and Pub Show - first of all, let me just take a moment to say, whenever I am worried about getting lost or not being able to find parking, remind me to temper that with a fear of being the only person from my group there. Girls from one of the other schools kept giving me the stank eye, like I didn't belong there. Can we say awkwaaard . . . Secondly, if it's warm and sunny and still in the little valley of apartment buildings I live in, it most likely is sunny, warmish but with an arctic breeze running through the streets of the capital. Dance shorts and leotard with no coat is not considered ok for warmth. Despite this all, it was strangely fun. Pub show was a blast. Crowded, loud and dancing down aisles and trying not to kick beers off tables. Just the way I've always imagined dancing. Indulged in what I considered a well deserved drink with some classmates after we were done dancing. Thats one of the perks of being an adult dancer. :D After that was the long lonely haul home.
The next week there was a retirement home performance. The highlights of which were completely forgetting my second slip jig AND second reel step, actually interacting with people I don't know, and the gentleman falling asleep in his front row seat. The last performance of the month going out with a snore instead of a bang.
Next in this tale, dear readers, was yet another installation in the should I/shouldn't I in the wig saga. There was a wig for sale. It was the right colour. It was the right price. It was used (which oddly enough was something I wanted, go figure). And even though it was a full wig, it wasn't one of those terribly popular styles that looks like a poodle died on your head, or, even worse, looks like it was styled by Fran Drescher! So, after looking at my perfect set of soft spike curlers with longing (but knowing in my heart that my hair is just not long enough yet to curl), I sent the check. I am not going to say that I am in love. I still exponentially LOVE the look of real curls. But in the end, having experimented with both sides, I have to say the benefits of wigging it are lovely. And even though I used to hate how much wig curls bounced, I now love wearing my wig and skipping up and down the hallway so I can feel it swish and bounce. Go figure.
This month, I am making up four classes I've missed over the winter. This means taking a class with the wee ones. Luckily there was a gangly teen boy so I wasn't the tallest person in the class. That actually means alot. It was amazing though. Some advice one of you, my lovely readers, gave me was put into action. When kids dance, they just do it. They don't over think it, and just so I didn't get run over, I had to do the same. Just shut the brain up and move it. There weren't five million water breaks. There wasn't as much dying for breath. There was just dance. It was kind of priceless. I'll be doing a second class again this week and I'm strangely looking forward to it. It was like their energy was contagious. I have since been trying to carry that mentally into my adult class, and it's been going pretty well. But I'm doing another make up class this week, so hopefully that will help too.
And now, having survived parking lot escapades, road trips and freezing breezes, forgotten steps and fake curls, I am facing the biggest, scariest challenge yet. My first feis. We're at about the 2 week mark, and I don't feel nearly ready, but more on that later .. .
Trying to sum this all up barely does justice to the barely contained chaos it felt like while getting through it. Everyday I do something dance related the question breifly crosses my mind - 'what am I getting into here'. In a bad economy, I decide to pick up an incredibly expensive hobby. A girl who spent her entire life up to her early twenties not allowed to do more then five minutes of cardo at a time is now spending 1.5 hours at a time pushing every limit physically. I, every day, realize that I can't recapture my youth. I look at the kids at my school and I envy them the friendships and team spirit they are building. I didn't get to belong to anything at their age. While I can feel the achievement and fraternity of dance, its not going to be what they feel, and that has its bittersweet moments. But here's the thing, when I get to honestly say to people "I am an irish dancer", peace washes over me. When I am tapping a treble jig under my desk at work and the rhythm is coming out just right. . . . Dancing hurts, physically. Muscles ache, knees click, ankles roll, shins are kicked. That's the cross every adult dancer has to bear. But, for me at least, it hurts my spirit not to dance. And that wins against every challenge
Sorry for the ramble. To much to say, and too little time. Til later, people,