 vintage trish* and meg. Part One.
I love to dance. In my room, at a bar, in a class, at concerts or weddings; with friends or strangers. Moving to the beat of a song that hits the ooey gooey good spots of my soul feels so freeing, and free is my most desired way to be. I don't brag about much in life, but I will take a moment to toot my own horn now (make way for the Tricia train): When I was little and took dance classes (think glitter, jazz hands, a can of hairspray holding my up-do in place) I was pretty damn good. I was the gal who confidently stood in the front, who refreshed the other little girls on the steps right before our performance, and who let the joy of 5, 6, 7, 8 counts to Michael Jackson fill her up with a satisfying rush. Somewhere along the way, however, I lost this sense of empowered love for dance. Or rather, I kept it hidden away and allowed for life--shifting priorities, promises, passions, insecurities--to stifle how much I simply loved to shake it. Cousin Meggie recently asked me to join her for a beginner's hip hop class. I jumped at the chance to say yes, both because Meggie is one of my favorite people on earth and also because the idea of getting my groove on with other beginners to fun beats seemed like a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon than any of the errands I had planned. Beginner hip hop, I thought, I can definitely handle this! Oh poor, sweet, jazz hand prepping, naive Trish. The instructor, who basically looked like he had just stepped off the stage from winning America's Best Dance Crew, began to hastily run through a routine in a manner that was so un-beginner, my panic immediately set in. It was clear that 98% of the students in this "beginner" class were not only, in fact, not beginners...but they were regular attendees who had previously learned this routine and only needed a bit of refreshing. This, my friends, was not a good sign. Picture it: Two lanky armed white girls. Limbs flailing. A few stumbles (I mysteriously bruised the second toe on my left foot from said stumbles). Utterly confused faces flushed less from the exertion of physical energy, and more from the humiliation unfolding before their eyes. Less Sasha Fierce, more Sasha Farce--it was as if we were an SNL skit, Meggie Sandburg and Tricia Fallon. Except less funny. I'm fairly convinced if Beyonce could have seen how Meggie and I looked attempting to be "cool" performing to her song "Rocket" (cool attempts eventually gave way to pure survival: must. make it. through. class), she might just decide to retire that song altogether in order to prevent such blasphemy from happening again the future. (Please forgive us, Sister Sasha). Suffice to say, it was far and away one of the most hilarious and deeply mortifying 1.5 hours of my entire life. Admittedly, we considered leaving about halfway through. It was that bad. And my frustrations were rising and rising with each passing attempt at the routines. I was genuinely pissed off at myself and the teacher for such a perceived epic fail. My thoughts ranged from The hell, dude...I paid for beginner! to My gosh, I suck so hard. But, thankfully, with the help of Megan's persistent giggles, we decided to say f*ck it and stick it out til the end. This shift in attitude made such a huge difference to my experience. Don't get me wrong--we still looked utterly absurd. But deciding not to give a hoot and choosing to let our abs ache from cracking up at one another brought back a piece of that old, uninhibited joy from moving my body to the holy voice of BeyBey to my soul. It's pretty amazing what happens when we decide to accept an unfolding moment as it is; to let go of fear, stop judging ourselves and just enjoy. And it was that tiny reminder (well, that and the memory of trying not to pee my pants-laugh-crying with Meg) that pushed us to try another class (albeit at a different studio with a teacher I'd had before) this weekend. Picture it: Two lanky armed white girls. Limbs slightly less flailing. Black Sheep's "The Choice is Yours".... Stay tuned for Part Two. **for the record, I have no idea what's happening with my bangs in this photo. I still think we look pretty fierce, regardless.**
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