All Work & No Play

Apparently, he just couldn't hack it.

The goatee'd SNAG (Sensitive New Age Guy) who riskily participated in my chick-heavy Tribaret (see the earlier post) belly dance class was a no-show by week 2 of the new 6-week session. Now, typically by the second week or so the class thins by roughly half, so his lack of physical presence was not completely unusual, though being that he was the only male person in attendance his absence was not only glaringly obvious, it personally provoked some wild speculation on my part.
It could merely be, of course, that something untoward occurred in the interim, such as a pulled groin muscle or a blown Subaru gasket or, God forbid, the unintentional ingestion of some manner of animal product which commenced to wreak bloody (perhaps literally) havoc on his pristine Vegan innards. Just something that might throw a major wrench into the belly dancing aspirations of a contentedly in-touch kinda guy.
Admittedly, and in spite of my personal observation that beholding his attempt at Snake Arms invoked more of a Joe-Cocker-onstage-at-Woodstock rather than a fluid, seductive, Dance-of-the-Seven-Veils kind of sensation, I'll never truly know, and like I said, this is all, of course, just wild speculation on my part anyway.
Of course, it's also feasible that he's not actually vegan, and maybe he didn't pull a groin muscle, nor does he drive a Subaru and maybe, in fact, maybe he's actually planning to show up next week, and the week after that, and the week after that for a little Yoni-vs.-Lingam dance-off.
Just maybe.
Though I wouldn't bet my taqsim on it.

Callipygous

Yes, I know, 'tis been a while since my last post, and those who know me know why so I'm not even gonna bother with long woeful excuses. Here I am; now let's get to it.
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.

A Little Namaste

It has occurred to me--as a burgeoning Life Coach--that, in order to coach well, I must practice what I preach. I can't encourage my clients to grab the world by the balls, so to speak, if I'm unwilling to do so; how hypocritical would that be? I mean, "Go and try what scares/thrills/titillates you the most, while I sit back, hide out, and merely TELL you to try what scares/thrills/titillates you the most--oh, and that'll be $65 for the privilege......?"

Hm. That doesn't work for me, and I doubt it'd fly with my clients. I need to practice what I preach, and tonight, I did that.

Belly dancing falls into the want-to-try category for me, and I've wanted to take it for a long time. In college, I took jazz, modern & ballet. In high school, it was tap. I love moving my body, although I've often let my own biases stop me. This, I decided, would be another (forgive me) EMPOWERING step toward eradicating my negative body image issues.

So tonight, I had my first class. The instructor was great, tiny, beautiful, and completely supportive and encouraging to her room full of beginners. The class itself consisted of about 10 or 12 women of all ages, shapes and sizes, and we just let it all hang out. I decided that, if I was gonna do this thing, I was gonna commit fully, me and my belly--and arms, ass and tits, because there are a LOT of isolations in belly dance and each area kinda snaps. The most difficult part, I can see, is putting it all together.

Trust me: it only LOOKS easy.



And it's so, so, SO fun, I cannot begin to TELL you. The entire studio was an homage to femininity (right down to the complimentary menstrual pads and tampons tucked on a shelf in the dressing room next to the incense burner), and even though I walked in solo and didn't know a soul--something that is very, very difficult for me because I can be shy and self-conscious--I felt very comfortable as soon as I opened the door. The lighting is soft, the costumes are beautiful--I wanted to buy some better, more elaborate dance clothes. And I will.

And the music was wonderful, too. I really wanted to cut loose and work it, because it's quite rhythmic, but of course, I had to follow the instructor closely. I'm sure my arms are going to be sore as hell tomorrow morning, but it'll be a good sore.

And, wow. I've never done butt isolations before, one cheek at a time. Wild.

So there it is. I can put a check mark by that item on my list of goals for 2008, although I'm by no means finished; I bought a card of 12 classes for a ridiculously low price. Personally, my goal is to perform, and once you're at an advanced level, there are many opportunities for performance.

I followed through. I can be afraid, notice it, and go do "it" anyway, whatever "it" happens to be. I doubt fear will ever NOT be a part of new experiences for me....but it certainly doesn't have to STOP me.

So that's what I can share with my clients: that I know walking the walk can be intimidating and scary, but it's a lot more gratifying than merely talking the talk, which is just that: talk.

I can't wait for NEXT Sunday!

Namaste....