Untangling and Settling

*Sigh* It’s been over five months, and I’m writing today because I sure as heck don’t want to make it six.  Truth be told, I’ve been lacking the motivation to write because I have a lot going on in my life right now.  I’m still wrestling with all of it.

This will be a short update.  Please forgive me.

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Not The Type

Authoress Note: The following is meant to be an open letter of encouragement.  It can be applied to any wholesome dream you have, though it’s obviously going to be geared towards dance  For those that don’t know, my dancing has taken a huge hit lately with Tommy’s absence.  And I’m afraid it’s gotten worse because I can say with great certainty that he’s not coming back this time, unlike his previous leave of absence.  Why the people at the studio have never said “He’s/She’s gone.” is something that continually baffles me.  We’re all adults there, so we don’t need to know why, just that it’s happened.  Whatever their reasons, I refuse to try to comprehend it anymore.  Onto the post.

This is dedicated to all the men and women of the US Armed Forces.  Anyone that places their life on the line to keep us safe, regardless of personal character or motivation, has my eternal gratitude.  If the good Lord didn’t have other plans for me, I would’ve been honored to be among you.  Now, I dedicate my pen to you whenever I can.


 

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No Chore, No Bore

 

I never liked PE.  We had to run laps which increased as the semester progressed.  I “excused” myself more than once to the restroom to wait out the running.  We never played a specific sport, more like quirky games.  That meant more running, not to mention dexterity I had yet to develop.  An MVP I was not.  Had there been an option to choose team members, I would’ve been one of the last ones.  Hmph, if this was what an athlete was, I wanted no part of it.  The story was identical for middle school and most of high school.  I made myself run cross-country for three years during that period.  Whether I legitimately wanted to love it or subconsciously hated myself is an unsolved myself.  I only recently discovered that a huge part of consistent exercise was finding one’s niche.

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Tommy’s Reminder

“Grr!  Ugh!”  More noises of frustration slipped through my lips as I continued my rumba walks.  These walks, like its Cuban motion counterpart, were something I had repeated meticulously whenever I had the chance.  Up and down the long walls every practice.  I thought it had gotten better, but DP’s constant corrections increased my doubts.  A little adjustment there.  A sound indicating erroneous movement.  A tweak of my standing leg.  Where in bleep had all the progress gone?!  I knew I could never reach perfection, but did it have to seem so Sisyphean?  I was crying internally from exasperation.  To make matters worse, those tears were threatening to spill outwardly.  (I hate crying in front of people.)  DP noticed and took me aside for a pep talk.

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Please, No Tug-O-War

photo by vastateparksstaff (flickr)

photo by vastateparksstaff (flickr)

I’m not fond of tug-o-war.  To clarify, watching people is fine, but don’t get me involved.  The fall semester of my senior year of college I decided to participate.  It was freshmen versus everyone else.  The competition is always rigged to make the newbies wear their dorky beanies for an extra week.  My freshman year, they tethered golf carts to the other side and lightly tapped the gas.

Anyway, I decided to join the “fun” because it was my last year.  Too bad I decided to wear flip-flops that day.  Noticing my poor choice of footwear, I was at a loss.  “Just take ’em off,” said the burly male student behind me.  Sure, it’d help me plant my feet better.  The flip-flops came off, and the tug-o-war began.  We won with some mighty tugging, unremarkable.  What was remarkable was the fact I didn’t feel the stinging and burning from the fire ants that covered my left foot until after the event concluded.  I had stepped in their hill as I was tugging.  I had at least seven bites, and my foot soon swelled to the point where I couldn’t where my left shoe properly. I still have the scars, but they’ve faded significantly.  No more tug-o-war for me!

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Bachata Snippets (or Sweetness in Spanish)

photo by COD Newsroom (flickr)

photo by COD Newsroom (flickr)

Author’s Note: This is going to be yet another bachata post.  D-Wall, author of Facing Diagonal Wall was curious to know about my experiences with bachata for additional perspective. Seeing as I had no ideas for the next post, I’d be happy to share them.  It’s also an opportunity for me to experiment with a differently styled post, four vignettes with an epilogue.

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A Reminder for Compassion

What's better, dancing together or eating together?

What’s better, dancing together or eating together?

I’m taking Elementary Spanish I as my linguistic course this semester.  The last Spanish course I took was in elementary school.  So, it’s as if I’ve never taken it before because I remember nothing.  I seek eventual fluency because it’s a practical language.  (I live in Texas, y’all.)  However, the most significant reason is its connection to my dancing.

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