The Dream

Before:

After:

Body Language 2

The etymology meeting

Biceps: yeah, my etymology is pretty cool. "Biceps" actually means "with the hard bulging strength of dinosaurs", as in biceratops (related to triceratops.)

Quads:  I have a military origin.  Notice the similarity with Squads. (and Squats) (it rhymes) (it is an assonance)

Glutes: We are capable of being brutes!   

Shoulders:  Yeah, right. Isn't your other name "ass"?    We shoulders are related to naturally occurring solid aggregate of minerals and/or mineraloids. Think boulders! We're bold!  We're hot! We smolder!

Glutes: Yeah, you're as flexible as rocks too.  And as for being hot, you sure hang out with ice enough.

Quads: um, cool it, dudes, we're a team here!

Belly:  Hey, you guys!  I rhyme with Jelly!  Ha-ha! And Telly!  Ha-ha-ha! And Vermicelli!

Rest of Body:

Rest of Body:

Rest of Body:

Rest of Body:

Belly: What?

The Lacrosse Ball

So I'm lying on the floor again, with Paul's shoe planted firmly in my upper back (try to explain those footprints to the guy behind you in the Safeway checkout lane) and I'm reaching and twisting, going for upper back mobility and keeping Mr. Twirly Lower Back still.  This stretch I understand since I have that honking boot inching up my spine to make sure I don't cheat.

 I think Paul ordered this "star" stretch (I feel like a 5-point star) as a 5 minute break since I sorta flunked Supermans.

My shoulder was a little stiff today and the left arm wasn't flying too well.  If I were Supergirl I would have been flying in large right-turn circles all day long.

I actually really tried hard because if I couldn't get it right Paul might say

"ok, let's get on the lacrosse ball!"

which he did.

In all fairness, he really does mean "let's" - he gets a lacrosse ball for himself and works on his own back & neck.  Of course, he enjoys the rolling around, whereas I feverishly sweat with pain.

The exercise is mind-numbingly painful.  In fact, it is painful enough (and mind-numbing enough) that I actually suggested with my own lips that maybe I should go out and push the prowler around instead.

Dance Paws

this took practice

Crikey, after years of struggling to achieve a semblance of "pretty feet" in dancing (thank you, Susan,) now I'm having to learn to "gym feet". 

Dance: toes

Gym: heels

Dance: ball of foot

Gym: outside of foot

Dance: roll up to toes, point foot

Gym: launch from heels
Dance: knees slightly curve in
Gym: knees push outward

And just like belly dancing there is the barefoot vs. shoes question.  Which is better for a performance?  The answer depends on whom you ask and also, I believe, on what surface you are about to dance / workout on.

I started out barefoot at the gym.  It is easier to do most lunges barefoot (especially if I have to pivot.)

But I found it is really difficult to keep my feet in the holders on the machines if I don't wear shoes.  Also, the lifting, swinging, dragging, pushing stuff is more comfortable in shoes (think parking lot pavement vs. my feet.)

Plus, when I am wearing shoes, Paul can't see if my toes are occasionally gripping, ha ha!

Ok, that is so a lie!  He CAN tell.  I'm not sure how he can tell (more on superman later,) but he snaps out "off your toes, back on your heels" when half a little toe sneaks in to help push.

Iron Maiden

Auughh! It's the T-Rex ham-string stretch!

Today I was put on the rack.  Paul decided I needed more range of motion in my shoulders especially the locked up left one.  He announced this after the T-Rex hamstring stretch that never fails to put me in touch with my orbital cavity.

So first I had to get down on the floor which meant there was a 50-50 chance that I would either be focused & stretching (think "relief") or enduring an exercise that results in my eviscerating my lips with my teeth in order to prevent myself from revealing national secrets.

Today it was the latter.  I had to grind a lacrosse ball into the flesh around my scapula and down the side of my spine, 1 (one) slow degree of placement at a time.  I was supposed to move my arm diagonally across my body in order to rotate the shoulder.   Five minutes into the exercise my shoulder could have detonated and blown off my body for all I cared in the face of the volcanic burning in my back and neck.  My arm movement began to resemble that of a beached seal waving desperate flippers.

I wildly tried to think of things that were worse than the flaming muscles under my skin:

• spiders in the shower
•  gas station bathrooms
• French

When I finally came to, Paul chained me to a bunch of wheels for the Egyptian Slave exercise.

you should see the inside

I set off for the far end of the parking lot, dragging the metal wheels to a distant  pyramid site.

I spent the first part of the journey cheerfully imagining my own personal pyramid and how I would decorate it.

The march back included gruesome drags over uneven pavement and clumps of grass that snapped me out of my Alexandrian day dreams.  With a lot of unsavory language involving fricatives & occlusives, I eventually returned the wheels to the entrance, and carefully coiled the harness and straps.

Tech Sergeant Chen said it best: "Hmm.That was a hell of a thing."

Field Trip

Ok, so today I navigated to SF Presidio with Paul riding shot gun which just goes to show you that the military really does help you develop nerves of steel, to visit a specialist whom I'll call "Kelly".

I was definitely feeling a little anxious since Paul implied that Kelly was basically going to remove my arms from my sockets, twirl them around and reinsert them.  But this was really going to help my range of motion!

the day seemed so peaceful

The facility is located in a lot across from a field that is probably used by movie producers everywhere: a stunning wide open grassy area over-looking the SF Bay with the Golden Gate Bridge arcing high across the water in the background.

I thought, not a bad view to be enjoying in the last moments while I still have my arms attached.

The facility itself was quite unique (a deluxe Port O'Pot  on site - haven't seen one of those since that 1998 Depeche Mode concert) but of course, very masculine: metal machines, chain link fencing, clanging metal stuff etc.

We had to wait for a few minutes before Kelly was available so I had time to think about how to greet a person I knew was going to hurt me (would looking pleased about this imply odd things about me & pain?)

Kelly appeared to be really nice.  He was cheery, casual, and confident (although I could totally see him smiling while explaining, "ok, now I'll just twist your arm around like so and then angle it up like this... Yes?  That was a scream of relief?")  But actually, his calm and deliberate manner made me feel like a puppy with a friendly veterinarian.

He did point out my crap sleeping habits (bad pillows, sleeping in monkey shapes) and crap head alignment (computer neck) before putting me on my face on the table.  I lay there acting all casual, but I was acutely aware of the remoteness of the location and remembered that Alien quote "In Outer Space No One Can Hear You Scream."

Kelly uses the Vulcan Mind meld to locate the most painful spot possible in my neck

Kelly skillfully found the most painful spot on my neck.  He masterfully ground into it for twenty minutes while I struggled to keep from gnawing my own lips off (mental note: put Vaseline on lips before going to gym.)

Paul & Kelly chatted away about technique and helpful exercises while Kelly moved my arm around at frightening (but surprisingly not painful) angles.  He was most triumphant when the [technical term for muscle thingy] finally let go, and I was no longer in pain.

He made me pinky swear to come back in two weeks ("So we can work on that shoulder!  I didn't today because I didn't want to scare you off!")  It's possible he noticed my swollen, chewed lips.

At any rate, I can't forswear a pinky vow, so I'll Be Back.

Paul managed to survive the return trip with barely any driving directives for me, which suggests remarkable manly restraint.  Or a drug habit.

Arrrrrrgh!

Ok so now I know the table that Paul invites me to shove across the parking lot and back is called a prowler.

I'm not sure why it has this name unless it is because you have to be in a bent over straight-armed position launching yourself from your toes -somewhat reminiscent of a prey animal stalking something small and furry.

Given the quick charge and staggering return patterns I have, I think I probably am more like a drunken border collie chasing ducks.

Today's prowler was bright yellow like a raincoat or like NASCAR or like the sparkling lights in front of my eyes as my heart slam-danced in my chest.

When Paul set it up I thought ok, I just need to survive three of these.  Maybe five.  Paul smiled, Ok, let's do ten today.

Me:

Me:

Me:

Paul: seriously, you can do it.

Me: um, ok (because, after all, the worst that could happen would be my body exploding into small pieces in the back parking lot.)

So the first three went pretty well. The next two proved that the prowler would serve as a fairly good sobriety test as I lost the ability to shove in a straight line (probably making my reps longer.)

During the 6th run, I thought, I am more than halfway.  Then on the spin around to head back it got caught in a small pot hole.  I wrestled it out in one of those incredible Hulk moments purely because I panicked at the thought of losing momentum.  (So call me if you ever need me to lift a bike off of you in an emergency!)

During 7 I thought about the synesthesia exam and the mystery of why I do not have color associations with the numerals 2 or 4 but they do prompt images of snowflakes: Possibly this was a sign of delirium, but at least I no longer cared what my heart was doing.

During number 8 I counted my footsteps and then wondered was it really number 8 or was it 7?

During number 9 I began to mentally chant "8! 8! 8!" in a pathetic attempt to make myself feel better at the end when I would reveal that it was really the 9th run.

Number 10, I cleared my brain completely because I was so determined to finish that I tapped even my neural energy.

I have to admit I felt some serious sense of achievement, especially once my eyes could focus properly again.

Eventually I hope to be occasionally drenched in sweat like the guys working hundreds of pounds and saying Arrrrgghh!

Night sweats

...if I can just stop waking up at 3am in sweaty anxiety about what Paul will ask me to do this morning, and if it will hurt...

I totally lifted the Barbie bar with a couple of weights on it in a new position. I was pretty thrilled I could get my arms under the bar in the right position.  I'm sure that is one of the last things anyone else considers an achievement, but it means my shoulder is letting go - even just a little.  I couldn't do it before.

I know today's effort was more about form rather than heaving a gruesome (but impressive) weight.  But I'm getting the hang of the squat position (of course, this does totally depend on whether you ask me or Paul.) 

Besides the challenge is the Standing Up From the Squat part.   Paul noted that I shouldn't think about going down into the squat.  Instead I should be already thinking about pushing up before I even start the squat.  I think it is supposed to be a bounce. I'll have to try that next time (and hope that my ankles don't implode.)

I did a lot of other stretchy arm things and lunges.  I like lunges.  There is a deliberation to lunges that makes me feel safer - like I have time to get the form right. I can work on tightening my limber back.
I am obviously not a member of the primate family.
I am clearly a descendant of an otter.

Dead Calm

Lift is such a happy inspiring word. In dance lift is channeling your energy at an upward angle. So the idea of a "Dead Lift" seems like a terrible contradiction in terms. In fact, it is an oxymoron.

but *loads* of previous experience

Paul decided today that I should try it. Of course, there is lots of preparation in terms of form. The right way to hold the bar, the hinging at the hips, the straight arms, the hip thrust forward as one lifts... I really tried to focus and understand the necessary coordination, but I was distracted by the large wheels on the metal pole. I smiled (PF) and nodded, thinking to myself "he is absolutely fr***ing crazy" and "this will probably hurt and I'll end up paralyzed."

After a few dry runs with a white PVC pipe (and I still had form issues with that,) Paul gestured at the weights on the ground and said (seriously, I am not making this up,) "It will be easier with the weights." (Is this gym humor?)

it's a challenge to organize

I gorilla-squatted mentally running a hundred body checks (which is like rounding up a flock of chickens: as soon as I get one muscle tight and ready, the others take off.) I slowly straightened my legs out of the squat and pushed my hips forward.

Voilá! I was standing and holding the bar!! And it wasn't too heavy!! Before I could savor the moment, Paul said, ok stick your ass back and let the weight go back down, etc etc and lots of other technical directions I should have been following.

I repeated this several times. clearly, I looked too thrilled. Paul said, "I think you can do more weight." I smiled and nodded (PF).

possibly photoshopped

He put two more large wheels on the bar. This time it took effort. The picking up wasn't so hard, but trying to get it down properly was a struggle. I would rock onto the balls of my feet, or let my quads suck up the stress. I'm sure my shoulders / neck also were doing something unreliable (if they were people they'd give change for a $9 bill using $3's.)

Anyway, by the third set I stood up with the weights and thought, I do not want to put these down. I feel fine right now right where I am, I can hold this for hours. Paul said, let go. I shook my head. He said, drop them. I shook my head again.

He shouted, *#$*@&%!@#!!  Drop them!

         ---No, I'm totally making that up, he did not swear (seriously) (although he did spell p-o-r-n in front of me.)(at a different time, not right then.) I finally started to put it down (all wrong) and he shouted "Open your hands and let go!  Drop it!"

So I did, with lots of apologies. I didn't know that "let go" means open your hands and let lots of weight crash to the floor. I mean, I do now, but hello, I have spent most of my life trying not to drop stuff!

I think Paul was ready to have an aneurysm. Certainly, his eyes were bulging unevenly. He sent me off to row where I endured another character-building moment by launching myself off the seat -bam- down onto the bar. Dignity, confidence and tail-bone somewhat shaken, I finished rowing and drove home to ice.

My first Dead Lift. I think the name is pretty accurate.

PF

Professional Face:

Most entertainers have professional face.  That's the smiling, relaxed face we force on the front of our skulls no matter what is happening.  Normally, that face is genuine and so the expression shines from our eyes. 

what....happened...I'm....in.....pain...

But sometimes we have to think or deal with a situation while performing (the Show Must Go On) and so we lock the professional face in place.  I've used professional face when dealing with intoxicated clients, fending off gropers (more on that later) and most importantly when in pain (glass in foot, big splinter jammed under toenail, fractured thumb, etc.)

The most fierce professional face I have worn to date was during a stage performance. A few minutes into a routine, a sudden bolt of nauseating pain shot through my right shoulder and continued to stab and worsen. I couldn't move my right shoulder at all, but I could bend the elbow and wrist and grip slightly with my hand.  In dizzying pain, I kept going.  With a smile.  And pupils so wide and black I looked like an opium addict.

PAIN

It was a cane routine. I kept my right hand on the cane and let my left hand do all the moving and lifting.  I changed the choreography on the fly to accommodate my new limits.

This is a photo from that performance.  It was the toughest smile I ever stapled onto my face.

I realize I'm probably using PF at the gym.  I hope they know I am taking the work seriously.  Maybe my smiles and efforts not to show stress is why they think I drink Crystal Light? 

So I cut my finger nails short, scraped my hair into a pony tail and put on t-shirts (no pink.)

And I bought clear electrolyte tablets (just in case.)

Hollywood must Die Hard

NO

"Hollywood" is an Americanese word, and is loosely translated as miente como un bellaco.

After a brush with Public Relations, I decided being a professional manipulator was not the career for me. I know now that my small contribution to misinformation counts for less than a stale frito chip compared to what is chummed out on a minute-to-minute basis in Hollywood. 

In the name of entertainment, HP (Hollywood Population) spews out more whoppers than the Deepwater Horizon does oil. These lies, [some of my favorites include:

• it's easy to have deep philosophical discussions with, and reach rational agreements with, 3 year old children (so why can't you?)
• men enjoy hours long conversations about the "tone" they use when saying stuff (don't yours?)
• pets are born cuddly, obedient and willing to drag you out of a burning home (so what is wrong with yours?)
• feeling love solves all problems, like the economy, etc. (so what's wrong with your life?)
and so on...]

These fabrications are designed to manipulate consumers by forcing an unfavorable comparison of their lives to an impossible ideal -- all based on the (actually true) axiom that Happy People Don't Shop (more on this later.)

Today I am addressing Hollywood's assertion (based on countless films, TV shows etc.) that if you have to get shot or injured, your shoulder is a safe, painless (and romantic) target since it contains unimportant excess flesh perfect for incidental bullet/sword/spear etc. wounds.

Clearly someone with no concept of the human body came up with this one, and people who have no motivation to actually verify any facts -ever- perpetuate it.

sexiest voice on the planet

 If you are unfamiliar with shoulder pain, look up excruciating in the dictionary. The shoulder is not only incredibly complex, but when damaged, is pretty much impossible to use. It packs ligaments, blood vessels, bones, cartilage and nerves into an area tighter than my Honda CRX's engine.

NO

Someone with a bullet hole through the shoulder joint isn't going to be able to hang by that arm off the edge of an elevator shaft (as much as I love Die Hard) (mostly because of Alan Rickman) (Galaxy Quest also greatly enhanced by Alan Rickman) (more on Alan Rickman later.)

seriously, sexiest voice on the planet

Anyway, I guess you can tell I am having a bad shoulder-pain day. I can't lift my tea mug much less an AK-47.

Ice, Ice, baby.

The Art of Racing in the Rain

So, yay!  No big injury to the left shoulder! Yay!

(BTW I now associate Enya with jackhammers due to the plethora (another fave word) (seriously, say it like 4 times, it's fun!) of MRI facilities that use her music during scans. I'd rather just hear the banging. It's sort of like a meth drum solo.)

Anyway, there are some adhesions built up. Amazingly, Paul's work is keeping them at bay.

Dr. M. said, we don't know how or why this happens. But tell yourself it won't happen. Don't let it. You can do this.

"In racing, they say that your car goes where your eyes go. The driver who cannot tear his eyes away from the wall as he spins out of control will meet that wall; the driver who looks down the track as he feels his tires break free will regain control of his vehicle."  -Garth Stein

Wet Work

So I was sweating in the gym.

Not that I don't normally glow. But I haven't flung sweat out of my hair since horseback riding in North Carolina: I'd slide down my horse's side and unhook and peel off my cap, blowing the sweat off my nose, wiping it out of my eyes and futilely swabbing my wet shirt over my equally slimy wet face. My hair looked as though (seriously) I had hosed it down.

But after repeatedly lifting a giant hacky sack from a gorilla squat (technical term), I noticed a few rivulets running down the sides of my face and that my t-shirt was damp. These rivulets increased when I shoved large metal table equipment across the parking lot and rowed 1,000 meters. -BTW I think that there should be some sort of screen to indicate what would be happening were I actually in a boat on water. Are my efforts enough so that my boat would really be moving?

Anyway, this perspiring is pretty good considering I'm in California where the dry air sucks the water out of me before I even finish drinking it. A couple of times I've stood in the rain here (lightweight drizzly stuff,) thinking, holy cow, how is it possible that I can feel no humidity, just dry air, while it is raining??

Compare that to North Carolina where you can actually see the white mist from the humidity entering your car through the AC vents. I didn't drink that much water in NC since breathing alone kept me hydrated.

But I digress.

Anyway, even my sweat muscles are working out now.

Body Language

Dance is a language - it is all about communicating and listening.

Working out also is definitely all about communicating (but sometimes I don't listen.) For example, here is a fragment of a typical conversation my body has sometime between 4am (when I wake up) and 7:20 (when I pull into the parking lot at the gym.)

Shoulder: I can only do X amount of rotation today. Mess with me and I'll make you all sorry by keeping you sleep deprived for days.

Quads: Well, look who woke up with an attitude. I'm a little tired of carrying your weight.

Abs: Maybe if the glutes put a little more effort into the workout we could relax a little.

Glutes: Uh, yeah, look who's talking. Why should I anyway? Quads and Knees seem perfectly happy to do the work.

Biceps: Eat a few more fish oil capsules and get that prima donna shoulder working! I'm cramped.

Quads: for God's sake, Shoulder, stop complaining - Paul will make all of the rest of us work out more! It's not fair.

Glutes: I think y'all are doing just fine. Thanks for all the help. Ha, ha, ha!

Low back: You total slug!

Diaphragm: Stop whining and start rowing. By the way, Brain, have you figured out yet what Paul means by "Finish?"

Brain:

Brain:

Brain: huh?

hello?

Paul: I think therapeutic massage could loosen that area up.

Me : Hmm, I've never had a massage, but ok. Do you have someone can you recommend?

Paul: Yes. It's not exactly massage. It is very painful.

Me :

Me :

Me :

Me : Um, more painful than what you do?

Paul: Unbelievably so. But it is very effective.

Me :

Me :

Me :

Me :

Paul: hello?

The Tightrope

So today the morning sun watched me shoving that upside down metal table across the parking lot, Paul thoughtfully having added an additional tens pounds. Run, run, run! And then when I stopped, acck! There's that weird vampire sensation of my life draining away. Paul says this a result of lactic acid doing something involving technical terms, but I prefer to believe there is a alchemy lab somewhere in the back of the building collecting all the life-energy that table saps away (distinct possibility this idea is influenced by the fact that I am re-reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows.)

more like 4 ounces

The fact that a mere 4 (four) (cuatro) back & forth runs left me without generalized heart/lung coordination makes me cranky. I can get through a 30-40 minute dance set with a damp glow and a smile (well, ok, and perhaps a swath of perspiration at my lower back if the restaurant is stuffy.) Of course, I am not playing 20 pound zills.

The shoulder trouble is (besides painful) irritating in that it is an obstacle in my transformation from pipe-cleaner to, well, robust pipe-cleaner. There really isn't an exercise that doesn't in some way require movement in the shoulder area. Most of the time it doesn't bother me, but when it tweaks it's like accidentally touching a hot burner on a stove: there's a knee-jerk auuughhh. I would prefer that my auugghhs were churned out by doing something a tad more labor-intensive than writhing.

Paul seems cheery about what I see as my snail's pace progress (my perspective is admittedly influenced by the fact I am surrounded by cool looking women doing pull-ups and lifts using impressive large wheels of weight and shouting auuggggh.) I keep thinking if my shoulder were ok, I might could do more; but now, after having my cells squeeze out half their mitochondria during the table push exercise, I think I need to be a more patient snail.

So afterward I drove over to see Lynn who fitted my costumes and came up with ideas for over-hauling some of my favorites. All the stuff I thought would be complicated construction she thinks of as a fantastic creative challenge. She had finished putting slits in my double-layer glitter skirts and fitted my Starfish costume bra.

Hanging out with a creative lady who adores my sparkly stuff can't help but be cheering.

Pensamiento para hoy: it's all about balance

3 weeks in : Fat on a stick

my submarines are confused

Although I know that working out is a slow process, and that life is full of humbling moments that remind me of my worm-like peon place in the grand scheme of the universe, it was still discouraging to find my butt and legs were not able to straighten in a coordinated effort. In fact, if they were submarine crews coordinating a defense, the enemy would have swept in and taken out the entire east coast while my subs were busy trying to not to collide with each other.

Standing Up is proving to be my biggest challenge (oh, other than a single bloody push-up. Girl push-up I might add!)

Paul, with his charming faith in my (potential) abilities, started with a plain bar for my first go with "lifting stuff". First he had to replace the real bar with what is probably known as the Barbie bar.

After a few deep squats with my awkward and slow efforts to Stand Up, that hilarious Paul added two gigantor metal wheels (that were each wider than my entire butt) to the ends of the bar.  I watched, listening to the background clanking noises as healthy attractive people heaved weights and did fierce squats and abdominal crunches.

I positioned my hands on the bar per Paul's instructions. As I took a deep breath, I felt all of my internal organs panic and scramble for the edge of the pool, trying to pull themselves out. My knees grew wobbly. For the first time I felt hesitant, well, it was more like a WTF am I doing?!? feeling. And then a I am sure enough going to look silly crumpled up in a heap under this bar  feeling.

Paul gave instructions on how to hold it, and I ran one mental body check after another. On the gym soundtrack, Billy Idol ranted, Hey little sister, What have you done?

I straightened my knees and took the weight onto my upper chest, holding my elbows high (ok, well, high for me). I stepped back, one step, two steps. I took a deep breath and did a sort of squat. And sort of straightened. I had rocked forward onto my toes, and when I squatted I had started with my knees. Paul struggled for the next 15 minutes to get me to have good (or even, any) form. Obviously coordination is a big factor in a successful lift, but the butt-back/knees-out/chest-lifted/elbows-high/abs-butt-etc.-tight and explode upward! seemed to evade me.

Paul uses many words like hop, jump and explode. So far I have been interpreting them as metaphors for general directional movement. Now I am not so sure. At any rate, he tried to be encouraging but this clearly was not my most successful day.

I finished up with the circus rings & some ab crunchy things (one in a push-up stance.)

Two months! Two months! I keep reminding myself.  I have a two month learning curve

before I get that confidence that I can start to learn something physical (like nursery school & kindergarten before first grade starts.) I'm only half way there, I remind myself. And I'm figuring out that shoulder. 

I know that I have to go through the re-strengthening process, and I have to have faith in myself again (yadda yadda.) It's going to be a mix of good days (I can do it!) and bad days (I am fat on a stick!)

Risky Business (digression 3)

So one night I had a private party (holiday celebration) in a super swanky gated community.  When I drove through security and arrived at the estate, a guard stopped me at the entrance to the driveway (and by driveway I mean the enormous semi-circle of pavement lined with trees & lamp posts, arcing across the front of the house.) When I identified myself as the belly dancer (as evidenced by sparkling make-up and elaborate cover-up,) he indicated that I should drive over to the left wing of the house to find my parking space.
My parking space! How cool was that? The space had a sign, "Dancer." At this point my night was already made regardless of how the performance went.

When I got out of the car, the bodyguard (packing heat!) carried my stuff to the door, where he introduced me to a woman who would be my "assistant".  She would help me with whatever I needed to get ready. She guided me to "my room" which was a large bedroom with a bathroom and a private pool outside of the sliding glass door. I'm sure they didn't intend for me to use the pool, but it was there none the less. This evening was just kept getting better!

I set about changing and organizing my props. I sent my "assistant" off with my music. While I fixed my hair, I heard giggles outside of the door. The door opened a crack and I saw girls peeking in trying to get a glimpse of me. When I waved, they giggled more and shut the door. I was starting to feel like a celebrity.

A few minutes later "my assistant" (I did ask her name, but let's call her Isabel) came to tell me that they were ready for me. I followed her into the foyer. She explained I had to go through the first kitchen, then a pass-thru hall into the second catering kitchen (seriously) and then into the bar/ballroom. I was wearing suede dance sandals since I wasn't sure of the flooring in the dance area. While we were talking about the entrance route, one of the workers came back carrying the CDs along with the dread news (which I frequently encounter at wealthy homes with built in sound systems): They won't play. For some reason, some of these systems won't play home burned CDs of any format. Since there is no Belly Dancers R Us with a huge variety of routines, we all like to select our own music and mix it into performance CDs (I burn in MP3 and Wave formats, but there you have it.)

I sighed and went back to my room and brought out my back-up boom box with jacks. But again, the message came back that the jacks were not compatible. I wasn't totally convinced of this, but as it wasn't my house and it would spoil the surprise if I walked into the party to work on the sound system, a neighbor was sent off to get his stereo.

Isabel and I hung out chatting away about her family, her home country, her boyfriend (new), her ex, costumes, music, food. Finally we were told that the music was a go!

I waited through the music intro and then swept dancing through the two kitchens and into the bar area. As I smiled and danced, I observed that the bar and ballroom were multi-level (3 tiers.) There was band equipment set up (after show) in the first level that I had to avoid.

I wove in and out of the groups of guests, zilling away until I reached the center of the second level. I did a quick spin. This floor section was marble. The suede shoes became ice skates: I went into a dramatic Tom-Cruise-worthy slide across the floor. Other than (sort of gracefully) throwing out my arms for balance, I didn't react; but I was thinking furiously. When I finally skidded to a stop at the other side of the floor, I repeated the spin and slid back again (do it once, it's a mistake; repeat it, it's a move.) I recovered my bearings, continuing through veil and fast routines in the first and second room tiers.

I confidently stepped down into the third level to do my sword routine. The third level had a heavily fringed carpet. As I danced I felt the long stringy fringe tangling around my feet. I sank to the floor to do floor work and managed to pull at the fringe behind my back. When I finally stood up and put my sword down, I could feel long strands still caught in my feet. I did a few slow spins trying to pull them out from my toes - and I realized they were the laces of my sandals: I had accidentally untied my own sandals. I turned my back on the guests, doing some slow arm and undulation movements while using first one foot and then the other to pull off the sandals. I was looking directly at the body guards who were trying not to smile. I was giggling a little and I indicated the sandals with my eyes, mentally begging them to pick them up for me.

At last it was time to get the guests to dance.

The host, his wife and a few of the younger guests enthusiastically danced through first song. But during the second song, I was unable to tempt anyone else out to dance. Alas, the rest of the guests proved to be members of the sit and stare crowd. The host grabbed my arm and hustled me over to one set of people after another, demanding that I make them dance. Despite his faith that I could some how coerce his friends to the dance floor, the guests' hard stares and firm "no"s made this unlikely short of a request made at gunpoint. Gunpoint! I made my way back across the room and collected the body guards who, as employees, probably had little choice. They proved to be enthusiastic dancers and we enjoyed an additional 25 minutes of rowdy, fun dancing.

At the end of the finale, I swept out, trailed by my protesting host who wanted me to dance for just another half hour. Without thinking, I said, Dude! That was already 15 minutes beyond our contract, but I am very glad you enjoyed the show.

Dude! I just called a client Dude! I am so fired.

Fortunately Isabel began to giggle, then so did a few other people, and then so did the host. He paid me (tipping most handsomely!!) and I left, accompanied and helped by one of the body guards.

I so wished I had asked to keep the Dancer parking sign.

The Twilight Zone (digression 2)

Sometimes people ask me if people are ever rude to me when I'm working as a belly dancer. I'd have to say that pretty much most people are really fun, want to be entertained and want to enjoy dancing. Since I belly dance at restaurants, shows, private parties & events for a mix of men, women & children, the atmosphere is nearly always positive and enjoyable and sometimes funky.

One private party I danced at in someone's home was for a 70th birthday party. When I began my set, dancing into the living room (crammed full of family members), the homeowner (husband) cranked up the music and turned on a large disco ball in the center of the 9 foot ceiling. I had to dodge this spinning, glittering ball as I danced.

After my initial entry song, I began my veil routine. The husband crossed the room to the fireplace and flipped a switch. Instantly, fog poured out of a machine that was built into the fireplace, flooding the room. I kept calm in the face of the spitting fire (unhappy with the wet fog) but as I got into my veil routine, the heavy fog began to saturate my veil. My veil got wetter and clumpier and I had to switch from spinning veil to framing veil. Finally I simply placed the sodden fabric around the neck of the grandfather and danced without it. My costume became damp, my hair got limper and frizzier.

he blinded me with science

I began the third song (a fast zill song,) and the husband upped the ante: laser lights that shot through the fog! Somewhat dazed, a little disoriented, very damp, and seriously planning to put this in a Blog, I began my sword routine. As I sank to the floor to do floor work I watched the family's faces disappear. I could not see anyone in the room through the fog. A child at the party later told me that she thought my routine was so cool because they could only see a sword floating around on the fog.

At the end of the sword routine, pushing wet hair off my face, I slid my zills onto my slippery fingers and started an energetic drum solo. Suddenly, there was a blinding, pulsing light! The husband had pulled out all the stops: he ignited a strobe light in this tiny room! My first thought was, OMG what if I have a seizure?

I was dancing pretty blindly, when the family all hopped up and began dancing happily and noisily. They were awesomely friendly and fun, but it took several days for my costume to dry out.

My veil still smells smokey from the fogplace.

Breaking up is hard to do (digression 1)

It's good to have a supportive girl friend. Especially one who is willing to risk annoying you to help you face some of your own funky behavior.

Jen finally pointed out that my costume collection was getting a little too numerous. I was indignant at first. Each of those costumes is a passionate love affair. They are rapturously selected (usually in a Love-At-First-Sight moment) or made for me, worn with joy, carefully maintained and stored. In fact, I always consider the dance venue when determining which costume to wear: will there be tipping which involves people touching the costume? is there carpet, stone or wood flooring? indoor? outdoor? kids? stage? restaurant? home? band? etc.

After being danced in, the costumes pieces go into separate cotton laundry bags in my dance bag. At home they are laid out on the floor overnight; then the next morning, they are brushed down and the bras turned inside out and laid in the sun to air out. Eventually they are repacked into the canvas storage boxes.

Each costume is a story, an event, a relationship.

But many costumes were doing hard time on the shelves, lonely in their labeled, vented, canvas boxes (with carry-case handles for quick transport!) They sat for a variety of reasons mostly having to do with the bra size (I had a strange habit of buying #3s with a vision of "doing something" to make them fit better,) or because a new costume had become the harem favorite.

I loved you so much

It took Jen a year of gentle encouragement to get me to photograph and measure a single costume and post it on the Bhuz costume swap. Even then I felt like I was returning a puppy to the Animal Shelter. Costumes are different than ordinary belongings, like clothes, CDs or books. They are like wedding gowns, perhaps. Somehow it feels weird to sell something so personal.

Now, after posting and selling and mailing off a couple of costumes, I've gotten used to it. And it helps that the new owners have written to say how much they love the costumes.

And so I was prevented from descending into costume-hoarding. That's what friends are for. Plus she is buying one from me...