With the exception of some bumping and grinding (hah. i kid) during a weekend stint in vegas, it has been three weeks since I have danced. THREE. Which means I have missed no less than five (six?) practices and what was (evidently) the most bomb-ass workshop ever.
And that really is the cherry on top of an outlet-less pastthreemonths week.
I know it may sound like I’ve become a whiney little bitch, but that was only because I was acting like a whiney little bitch.
I digress in my homage to Mean Girls.
There is always something I can do, I have to help myself, pack up my shit and move somewhere far, get off mama’s couch, yadda yadda. It’s not like I don’t know all that. But sometimes, all you need is a good deep wallow in self-pity.
Fortunately, this is not the time for it.
It’s slowly coming back. The rhythm, the flow, the vocabulary, the voice, the innuendos, all now helped with a healthy sprinkling of cuss words and a dusting of not-so-PG references.
It feels good. Raw. Like the color of beets raw.
Like while I was taking a break from the tedious work of patching together a cover letter, it happened. There is now something brewing in that highly sought after, not often found, fleeting cauldron (Penseive?) of my muse.
But it goes away too. I just came back from taking Mowgli out for his nightly walk, and in between thinking about the possibility of a blister on my pinky and how it might start to rain any second, it left.
And so, let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.