hip-moving hysteria

I don't think I know how to dance. Like, I'm kind of stiff. And then when I think I'm dancing pretty decently, I catch myself in the mirror and turn ten shades of maroon.

See, I used to be able to dance. I used to bust a move (or so I thought) at all of the high school dances. And then when I could get into the 18 and over clubs, I'd bust a move there, too. In fact, this one time in Ocean City...well, that's another story.

But the point is I could dance. I've done it so many times. Slow dance. Fast dance. Freakin' electric slide and cha-cha and line dancing. I've got it all covered.

Right. So this morning I decide to walk into a zumba class. I've heard it's fun, way better than regular aerobics, so much so, that people who never work out otherwise swear by their zumba classes. Since I've been regularly working out every morning, I figured zumba couldn't be that hard.

It's not that zumba is hard, no, rather I just can't dance. After a full hour of failing to (accurately) move my hips, boobs, shoulders, and butt it's a good thing I wasn't being graded on how well I can salsa. Or tango. Or gangsta rap. Give me weights any day over watching myself flailing and failing to dance. Ugh.

Nevertheless, I may go back and humiliate myself further come next Tuesday. I may not be in South America but I might learn how to move my hips within the next few weeks. It's a valuable skill, fluidly moving one's hips. Or so the zumba instructor tells me.

thought for the day:

Bad decisions make good stories.

Saturday's Child

There's this nursery rhyme that used to hang in my bathroom when I lived in Florida. I've memorized it over thousands of teeth brushings and toilet runs and shower frenzies.

Monday's child is fair of face

Tuesday's child is full of grace

Wednesday's child is full of woe

Thursday's child has far to go

Friday's child is loving and giving

Saturday's child must work hard for a living

But the child that's born on the sabbath day,

Is fair and wise and good and gay.

The only part that really stuck out to me, of course, is that being a Saturday's child sucks. I was born on a Saturday and all I get out of this poem is that I must work hard for a living? If I would have popped out of the womb a day earlier, my character would have been ideal and I wouldn't have had to worry about my future. But since I was born mid-afternoon on a Saturday, that line has haunted me for years.

Post-graduation. It's been exactly one week since I left Erie and unloaded my belongings in my room at home. It's been a week since I've seen any friends. It's been one long week since I've written anything worthwhile. Right now, one week ago, I was standing in a parking garage, drowning in navy, running my fingers anxiously through a white tassel.

I'm going to get a planner today so I can map out my life. I need a schedule. I need to be productive. I need to, apparently, work hard for my living.

But I'm not particularly ready to fulfill my nursery rhyme prophecy yet. Before I start digging toes-first into the working world, I still need to have my Grandiose Shebang, my All-In-Aeriale's Hardcore Adventure, my This-Is-It-And-Now-I'm-Ready-To....Whatever. Do Whatever. Be Whatever. As a college graduate, as holder of a BFA, I would like to treat myself to a trip. My feet are itching. My body is restless. My bones are ready to go. go. go. go. go.

Right now, I am no Saturday's child. I'm a Thursday's child. And as a Thursday's child, there is no time to waste.