Belly Dancer, That's Me

I'm hiding in the basement. In the Man Room, actually. I'm never in here, so let's see just how long it takes for someone to find me. I can hear feet on the wood floor upstairs, walking around, looking for me. Into my bedroom they go; squeak, squeak, stomp. Into the dining room, now the kitchen, through the loop into the bedroom again. Ha! I cannot be found! I must type fast.

It is a rule of thumb that if you hang for a while in places no one would ever expect you to be, you can get away with stealing for yourself a few moments of blissful silence. As with any stealing, you eventually pay for it, and the price is usually higher than the item you stole; so shall my brief affair with silence be.

Anyway:

I tried something new and exciting today: Belly Dancing. I'd forgotten that I love to dance. Or perhaps I never knew. Either way, I enjoyed myself. So much so, infact (which is technically two words and not one), that the rest of the day nearly paled in comparison to my delightful Belly Dancing session this morning. And not only did I get to dance, I got to wear a partial costume, so that was the icing on my fat free cake.

You know the fringe you've seen on the costumes in Dancing With The Stars? Well, thanks to my large, foot-shaped mouth,I had on a black wrap with long, white, swaying-with-my-hip fringe. When you walk into a "multi-purpose" room at the gym and see the instructor adjusting a wrap snug around her hips, one of the things you don't say is, "Oh man, and here I wanted to wear one!" One must not say this, because there just might be a small chance that the instructor has brought with her some extra wraps...(This was an instance much like the last Tupperware party I was at. After my comment of "Who on Earth would ever use that?" found me the new, lucky winner, of said item.) Thus, the wrap over my spandex (yes, I do enjoy spandex, thank you) made me feel that I had been a belly dancer for years, not just a newbie. It's funny how a simple little detail makes such a difference. (And yes, I did want to take the wrap home with me, but the instructor wouldn't let me.)

With a few minutes of instruction on how to "pop" one's hips, I believe I took a mental train to India, had a nice tan, had my waist-length hair back (it's getting closer, maybe by the end of summer!), a red dot between my eyes, and bare footsies (after the instructor had a good laugh over my red and pink striped anklets, I decided they really didn't match the fringe and had to go). I was "popping" to the left, double "popping" to the right. Step, step, jump; pop front, pop back. Step, side, step, double pop, double pop. Yeah baby, I was all over that like white on rice.

I had "snake arms" a slithering, hips a swaying and pretty soon, though I tried to restrain myself (something I am particularly good at doing) my whole body just had to move to that interesting Indian beat. I was off in my own little dancing world when the instructor with the headset brought me back to attention after she'd called my name a third time. Looking like a little girl who'd been caught dreaming about ponies, I said, "I'm sorry, what?" And she said what I guess she'd been saying while I was (mentally) dressed like Jasmine and charming a snake with my magnificent moves. She said, "I said, you missed your calling!" A little dumbfounded, since I'd just gotten back to the states, first of all, then back into the "multi-purpose room", I countered, "What? What calling?" The class laughed (just how long was my little trip to India?) as the teacher had to spell it out for me. "Dancing! You missed your calling to dancing!"

And it got me to thinking about yes, I do so love to dance.

So, a little (expensive!) trip to Walmart has me as the new owner of a Dancing With the Stars cardio workout CD. Oh yeah, this'll be fun! It's a good thing the living room is large, cuz I'm gonna boogie down tomorrow while the kids are at school! I'm pushing those cow-hide couches to the piano wall, and I'm rolling up the rugs. Maybe I'll even leave the blinds open. I'm gonna salsa, baby, and tango! And I don't care who knows it! (The mailman has seen worser things from my house.)

I don't cut loose too often in public. Okay, so I never cut loose in public, but at home is a whole different ball of wax (I'm sure our foster daughter has a whole lot to tell of her crazy foster mom who spontaneously bursts out into song, does Thriller or The Hustle on the drop of a dime (while singing), and who has a million different voices for all the different characters while reading bedtime stories.). And you thought what, that I had no fire in my belly, aye?

While running up the miles on the treadmill tonight I was talking with Paula, the gym's Administrative Assistant, who was sweating more than I while climbing hills on the elliptical beside me. I asked her what it took to be an instructor at the gym, and she told me "About $400 and a class." Then she tried to coax me into being an instructor. I told her I wanted to teach dancing. She looked at me, sweat dripping from her brow, and ask, "For kids?" What does she think, that no other sick and crazy woman wants to learn how to bust a move? (Surely there's at least one of you out there, right? Or am I really the only one?) I smiled my crooked little smile and said, "No Paula, I don't think children should pole dance." She let out a roar of a laugh which got me to giggling and by the end of it all, she finished her workout and I was left with a side ache from all the lack of oxygen. See, it doesn't pay to laugh (I nearly needed CPR and though I really do like Paula, I don't like her that much! No offense!)

Which reminds me, I must, at some later point in time, tell you about the time I nearly died choking; vitamins can be hazardous to your health! But not to worry, I now know how to properly insert the handle of a wooden spoon down my own throat to dislodge horse pills. It's kinda like a plunger...but not.

Man, I can ramble, can't I? Only for you, my little Dell. Only for you.

Now! Off to the showers! Scrub a dub dub. Wait a minute--just what is with that nursery rhyme, anyway? "Scrub a dub dub, three men in a tub, and just who do you think they be? The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. Turn 'em out! Naves all three!" Is that how it goes? And just what does that mean? And how can you really fit three men in a tub? And what's with the occupational discrimination? And were they bathing or...yes, WHAT were they doing in the tub? ..... I ask you, jury, who do find guilty of this crime? Was it the butcher (As I point a perfectly nailed finger at the befuddled, balding butcher)? The baker (who cringes as he's caught eating another flakey French pastry)? Or (dramatic pause) the candlestick maker (as I turn in my nice gray pen striped suit on my size six, perfectly formed body, raptly in his direction to glare at the wax covered, dirty apron wearing man)?! .... I'm sorry, where was I?

Showering. Yes, I was going to take care of my personal hygiene. I do so enjoy good hygiene.

'Nite!