Lil' bastard stealing my dance moves.
It’s been quite a while since I’ve penned anything for the blog at hand. In fact, it’s pushing two months now…quite a while indeed. While I’d love to say that–in that time–I’ve been studying for an adult spelling bee or learning to quilt, I have not. I’d prefer a geography bee anyway. Nor have I been reading more or painting more. If it borders on healthy, creative and/or productive, I haven’t been doing it. I did, however, give up on working out for a few weeks, develop a lasting friendship with the employees of Taco Burrito House (I changed my preferred late night burrito vendor), and invent–and accept–a challenge to spend more time horizontally…whatever you may take from that.
(Un)realistically, though, I was busy summering. It turns out that changing nouns into verbs isn’t just for the wealthy. It’s for the delusional as well. For me, summering entailed a lot of skin, liver and intestinal damage. And allegedly the lungs some, too, but you never know the lengths health insurers will go to deny coverage, so let’s leave that one out. Agreed? In witnessing the still-emerging photo documentation of my preferred season, the abuses are evident: my face growing continually closer to PBR can red with each weekend (I can easily make this comparison because rare are the photos in which one appears without the other…it makes for a pretty unexciting reversal of “Where’s Waldo”).
Of all components of Summer 2010, however, it wasn’t the tanning, the drinking, the eating or the not working out that captured its essence. It was the dancing. If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a dancer. But shit, did I dance a lot this summer. I really hadn’t danced since my college days, when latching onto the hippie subculture in an otherwise stifling environment enabled me to perfect my off-beat gyrations to jams that lasted longer than most sitcoms. But that was ten years ago. I mean, I have all new skin cells by now. Now that’s a long time.
When dancing in Charlottesville music venues was a regular part of my college curriculum, I acknowledged–at the time–how much I loved it. I loved it so much that I came up with a theory about it (shocking, I know…it’s all theories and policies in Justinville). My take on dancing was that it served as a release. Obvious, right? More specifically, a release of all the joys we encounter on a day-to-day basis. Whether an awe-inspiring piece of artwork or a new and exciting relationship; a phenomenal meal or the anticipation of an optimistic future, we’re constantly absorbing elements of happiness, whether or not acknowledged. It’s pretty difficult to release the build-up of these experiences. Smiling and being nice to strangers has limited effects. Sometimes you have to physically shake the happiness out of your bone marrow. It works in the opposite direction, too, but the release of negative experience is scary movie watching, which I loathe. Subsequently, we won’t be discussing misery or those who manifest it in a passion for horror films. Judgment eyes.
As dancing–in my world–can only occur in times of happiness, its proliferation this summer past is a great sign. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that, after a ten-year sabbatical, I had some joy stockpiled. My own little bomb shelter with shelf-upon-shelf of sunshine and lollipops, neatly arranged sequentially by expiration date.
I know what you’re thinking: with dancing skills like mine, I should invest in a good unitard, stretch out, and audition for Billy Elliot. A fair thought, but no dice. Actually, I have some sad news to share. My dancing hit a wall Labor Day weekend. It was as though a switch had been flipped, turning off my innate sense of rhythm. Okay, okay…so I’ve never really had rhythm; still, call me a Scissor Sister, because I don’t feel like dancin’. Have I cashed in my bomb shelter’s last ray of sunshine or the root beer Dum Dum I’ve been hoarding for the long Chicago winter? Or has summer officially migrated from verb back to noun? In either case, it just isn’t the same.
Perhaps, like college, this summer was simply the product of a unique time and (head) space, never to be repeated. Or, like the migration of nouns back to verbs, maybe my dancing shoes will be dusted off in 9 months or so. Or in 9 years. Who knows? Not me.
This summer was a master cleanse. No, really. The irony of routine toxicity aside, it was a period of great simplicity and release. It was summer as I remember growing up, with hot weather, close friends and endless adventures. I embraced the important, purged the irrelevant and identified the permanent. I can look back with fulfillment at some of the greatest months to-date. Better yet, I can even remember some of them.
So, while it may be a muggy day in late September, it is nonetheless time to put Summer 2010 to bed. It was a great run, but I’m ready for what’s next, which hopefully includes at least a pinch of health, creativity and productivity. With that in mind, take a cue from Kylie and “Get Out Of My Way.”
