A snake charmer, a belly dancer.....*

Due to various time constraints and plain ol' laziness, I had recently been on a belly dance hiatus. Last week I decided that it was high time to get back in the swing of things. I found a new belly dance class on Monday mornings (Monday being my one full day off per week) near my condo. And though I just wanted to sleep until noon, I decided to pull myself out of bed, dust off my hip scarf, and get ready to shimmy up a storm. When I got to the dance studio I found that the belly dance class didn't ACTUALLY start until April 21st (a fact that they neglected to mention when I dropped by last week to get information about the class). Looking at the dance schedule I noticed that there was, however, a ballet class starting in ten minutes. Now, I learned to stand in positions one through five and do plies pretty much as soon as I could walk. I think my second pair of shoes (the first being a super badass pair of purple moccasins that I still remember to this day and seriously wish I could find for my barely adult-sized feet) was a pale pink pair of ballet slippers. This passion for ballet continued intensely through junior high until it finally tapered off in high school. However, I still took the occasional dance class at the Arts High School, and even considered becoming a dance major briefly in college. Dance--ballet, in particular--has therefore always had a very significant place in my life. And it was one of my passions that I can actually say I was GOOD at (unlike, say, horseback riding or guitar). So as I stood there looking at the schedule, I thought, "Sure, what the hell, a few rond de jambs, developpes, and grand jetes might do me some good." But when I started to walk into the studio there was an impromptu invasion of stick insects. I was about to call for an exterminator when I realized, no, these were the women taking the ballet class. They were like wispy palm fronds. Their limbs moved like milk diluted in water. They were porcelain and symmetrical and without those pesky lumps we refer to as boobs. And even though it was listed as a beginner class, they all had natural turnout and bony joints and their heads were like the rows of sticky buns at the bakery. I needed to sneeze, but I figured it would be best to wait until I got outside lest I accidentally shatter all of them into piles of glassy dust. I watched the women sweetly greet one another and then look each other up and down with the lazeresque judgment eyes that are the trademark of female competition. In that moment I had a flashback to my previous ballet classes and that feeling of running the gauntlet upon entry to the dance studio. Everyone would appear to be stretching or conversing or sewing up slippers, but really, everyone was actually looking around to see who had gained a pound, whose leotard was looking faded, whose hair was out of place. When the music started and we all took our positions at the barre (sorry to be pretentious....that's how the French spell it!!), our eyes would dart around like lightning bugs, watching for the first person to fuck up or receive a coveted compliment. We were always watching, watching, watching, and constantly recording. Keeping score with savant-like accuracy. And then there would be the exchanging of pleasantries and backhanded compliments after class: "Susie! Wow, your tour jetes have gotten much better! You had the counts wrong, though. Here, let me SHOW you how it's SUPPOSED to be."

And yes, the horror of my flashback now complete, I got a few strange looks when I covered my ears and ran screaming from the dance studio. Oh well. What can you expect from someone who traded tendus for choo-choos?

There are eight million reasons why I love belly dance, but I am grateful for the fact that is it is for women of all shapes and sizes. Now, over the last two years I have lost a total of 17 pounds (17!!! I guess the cessation of binge drinking+cessation of midnight Taco Bell runs inspired by binge drinking+being a broke student in grad school who subsisted on one meal a day+Southeast Asian parasites=no more Fatty Patty!!), so I'm actually feeling rather svelte these days, but I have far too many curves to ever be able to squeeze myself into a leotard ever again. Plus, being in a ballet class just makes you, you know, feel badly about yourself. It's like looking into a funhouse mirror: suddenly your legs are like fatty pink sausages and your leotard looks like a can of Pillsbury biscuits that has exploded. In the belly dance class there is a climate of fun and camaraderie and we smile a lot and make all kinds of noise (clapping, cheering for each other, even the occasional zaghareet), and there is no room in this celebration of femininity (yes, that's right, I went there) for competition. We don't watch each other. There's no judgment. The dance has many, many interpretations, all equally beautiful, and you don't have to worry about getting yelled at because your arabesque is not high enough.

While I was bummed that I didn't get to take a class that morning, I saw that the dance studio where I usually go was starting another cycle of intermediate classes that evening. After my hiatus it felt good to be back. And, dare I say it? It was like coming home. As I suffered through the thousandth set of lunges that our teacher makes us do, followed by a gazillion sit ups and push ups, I couldn't help but smile. Ain't no stick insects up in here, baby.

*This title was taken from a song by Bassnectar that is pure awesomeness.