I had a dance class last night for the first time in – oh God, ages. I am turning into a sea slug on this tour, but finally, finally… movement. Jazz, but to a hard driving swing song, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. A little disorienting to have actual choreography to swing; no partner, no following, but who cares?
It was ecstatic. It was lifesaving. I will be so sore by sunset (it always takes about 24 hours for the real pain to kick in) I will probably not be able to walk tomorrow, because of course I overdid it, but I don’t care. I could have gone all night.
If I don’t get to dance more, in the middle of all this craziness, I will do something drastic. It’s almost interesting to think what I might do, if it weren’t so completely terrifying. It’s quite possible that I’m dangerously chemically imbalanced and the only thing keeping me rational and productive is my classes and dance nights. Maybe otherwise I would be in an institution, somewhere. Seriously.
What do other people do to keep balance? How can you not be explosively physical after all this horrifying, calcifying sitting and thinking?
Honestly, I wouldn’t write at all if I could just dance.
But is that a total lie?
The contradiction is about killing me.