I've been taking belly dance lessons since January of this year; it was a New Year's resolution--that I'd do something I've always wanted to do that intimidated me, that I'd take a dance class again (I love dancing--tap, jazz, even ballet in college, and of course, tapping my Inner Diva for an occasional spin on a downtown dance club floor), that I'd partake in forms of exercise that felt joyous and enlivening and celebratory, not punitive and chore-like, that I'd begin--after about 4 decades of constant berating, self-consciousness, dieting, restricting, resentment, all of it, to love my wonderful, powerful, curvaceous 42-year-old-female body the way I've never allowed myself to love it previously, and my outlet for all of this would be in a dance studio that offered "Tribaret" (Tribal/Caberet) belly dancing.
I'm happy to report I'm still showing up every Sunday at 5 PM (a successful resolution, I'd say!) and loving it, even though my Life Coach training schedule doesn't allow me to attend as regularly as I'd like to these days. But at this point, I've got some terrific basics pretty firmly under my belt, so missing a week here or there is no big deal--it's easy to pick up where I've left off.
We always start out with shimmies to loosen up our bodies (after which she leads us through some amazing pretzel-like yoga stretches) and we practiced a medium shimmy that really made the collective female flesh jiggle. It's fun to do, and her directions to us were to not clench our buttocks at all, cause we were supposed to feel that flesh flapping. Really. Flapping.
Is the word she used.
And I flapped. Indeed, I have a lot to flap. But the effect isn't unseemly or sloppy at all; it's exciting and kinda sexy to behold, even though it feels like you might shake your ass right off your bones.
Unless of course you're a guy, with no hips, no body fat, and nothing at all to flap--at least as far as butts are concerned.
Now, this being the hip West Coast and a mecca for equal-opportunity self-aware gender-neutral co-existent experiences, there was, in fact, a long-hair-parted-in-the-middle Portland Hipster guy with a goatee and chi pants and a long-sleeved tie-dyed shirt (he was apparently unclear on the "expose your midriff" concept) at Sunday's class, trying mightily to tap his Inner Goddess (bless his soul) and keep up with the ladies, but it didn't seem to be working much in his favor. Apparently deeply committed (judging by the deep furrow in his brow) he'd follow along for a while, piston his knees, thrust too much or too little, attempt a few hip shimmies, then shake it all off miserably and huff loudly, toss his hair around a bit and then try all over again.I mean, seriously: A for effort. But my observations--and there were numerous--around this teeny bit of Belly Dancing Gender Fucking (let's not get into men who actually belly dance in other parts of the world; I mean, great, good, wonderful, zowie, but right now, I'm talking about one singular Sensitive New Age West Coast Guy) were that he was painfully straight, terribly inflexible, deeply mystified, and nowhere near ready to dump his Anglo surname for a singular belly dance performance moniker such as Parvana, the butterfly.
But, you know, good for him. Good for him for trying it out. He was still vertical when class ended, which was a terribly hopeful sign. Perhaps he'll be back next week; it remains, of course, to be seen, and the rest of the class--all women--didn't seem to mind his presence one bit. In fact, I sympathized quietly on his behalf; a roomful of deeply in-touch women is not easy to be a part of (take it from one who knows). That is some serious yoni-centric energy bouncing around (literally) and it could be dangerous for a stray male.
Wisely, he stayed far away from the harem-esque dressing room.
But otherwise, he held his own.
Even though he didn't flap.
