La Meridionale Ballerina

Yeah, I’ve been really quiet lately.  And if I post why, then I’m held accountable for it.

I think (*gulp*) I’m starting a novel.

That’s all I’ve been doing so far, really - thinking.  About plot, about characters, about possibilities.  But I’m tired of my "I’m letting experiences incubate so I can write about them when I’m ready" excuse.  Nope.  I’ve always written, I’ve always wanted to be a writer, and I can’t be lazy about it.

Gosh darn it.

I am finding, however, that I am unbelievably rusty.  But my problem in writing has always been wanting things to be perfect the first time around.  I think my nearly a year with the "incubation" excuse has helped me get over that a little.  I started writing a bit the other night and it’s, frankly, awful.  But if I keep pushing through I can make it pretty when I go back.

Other predicament: where to write?  I need to find a quiet place without a lot of distractions.  This makes me miss UMD’s library.

Oh, want to know what it’s about?  I’ll give the typical author answer: a man searching for his identity but his identity is ultimately obvious to the reader, and the reader’s identity is infused with the character’s identity, and…you’ll just have to read it.

Ah, summer.  For my Buffalo-bred bones, the initial summer heat here is unbelievable.  We’re talking about some serious sweating just from taking a stroll.  Running in the park at lunch now results in a sopping shirt (sorry, I know that’s gross - just meant for illustration).  When outside, I seriously contemplate jumping into any body of water I see (ponds, streams, fountains) by evaluating the ratio of cooling down to looking like an idiot.  And it’s not even June.

I used to wonder how Nashville women kept cool and comfortable in 90+, insane humidity percentage weather.  The question has been answered.

Yes, this Memorial Day weekend (which we dubbed Carissa’s Weekend of Nashville Adventure and included a trip to the park, golfing, window shopping, and a trip to the zoo) we witnessed an elaborate fashion choice I have not seen since fourth grade jazz class.  Women everywhere we went had rolled up their shirt and tied it in a knot right under the front part of their bra.

I mean, everywhere.  The pregnant woman power walking in the park.  The middle-aged woman at the zoo cafe.  The woman in her late 60s at the giraffe exhibit.  Everywhere. 

So that’s how they stay cool!

I ‘m going to say this is a Southern thing because it reminds me, in my extremely limited knowledge of The Dukes of Hazzard (as in, I think it was a TV show - right? - and Jessica Simpson did a bunch of squats to be in the movie), of Daisy Duke.

I also know it’s not a look I feel confident about just yet.  I think I’ll have to break out my unitards first.       

So I tried to connect with the church girls again.  And yup, we’re throwing in the towel.

They’re nice and all.  Really nice.  And hanging out with them socially isn’t too painful, until I get nagged about being too old to land a man.

(Does this sound like they’re channeling the 18th century to anyone else?  Should I shine up my pattens?)

But I am really bothered by their internalized understanding of male/female relationships.  Sure, it’s to be expected that when a bunch of women get together they start complaining about their husbands (well, to me this doesn’t make sense.  If The Boy does something that bugs me, he’s the first to hear about it.  Usually through tickling).  That’s kind of a common thing, even though it doesn’t make sense to me because I think it doesn’t solve the problem, reinforces your inability to communicate with your male counterpart, and seems disloyal.  Getting advice is one thing, but you know what I’m talking about - this is a full-out whinefest.  "You know, Jimmy never does the dishes."  "Bob never picks up."  Blah, blah, blah. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve complained about The Boy to a few people - mostly his parents, who ask how he is about housework.  But I always try and explain that sure, The Boy can be messy, but we’re pretty good at meeting in the middle.  Okay, and last weekend I had to call him out when he claimed he cooked meals all the time.  Sorry, Matthew, but you can’t say making macaroni and cheese and eating it out of the pot is cooking.  You just can’t. 

(My dad always says he’s making lemonade when he adds some bottled lemon juice to his glass of ice water.  The same principle applies - no, dad, you’re not making lemonade.  You’re being gross.)

But back to my point - that’s a common, age-old occurrence.

What really bugs me is the internal understanding of male and female roles.  It is espoused (no pun intended) that men drive trucks.  Men fix things.  Men are manly men who don’t talk about feelings. Men are just big boys that need to be looked after.  Men don’t like babies.  Men are the protectors.  Men are the providers.  Men work.

Women, on the other hand, cook.  Women clean.  Women whine and complain and nag.  Women love babies and are nurturers.  Women want huge, nice houses and want to sit around all day not working.

Sure, some of that’s true sometimes.  Of course it is.

But not all the time.  That’s why they’re traditional, stereotypical roles.    

It’s really sad to hear both men and women fixate on these roles.  But they do.  The women in this group joke they aren’t "being good wives" because they haven’t cooked dinner in a while.  They complain about how they have to pick up after their husbands.  They talk about working to get a promotion to make extra money for a few months so they can quit and not work anymore (and those are the girls without kids).

I have no problem with these opinions or decisions, essentially.  Except they have to be conscious opinions and decisions.  Who knows?  I might want to stop working and stay at home once I have kids - I don’t have kids now and I won’t know how I feel about working until I have them.  But I have to make that decision because I want to stay home and I think it will make me the best person I can be (and, consequently, the best mother I can be).  It cannot be because I think doing otherwise makes me a bad person/terrible mother/horrible wife.

(Consequently, I think I’ve always been the type of person that is the best person I can be when I’m out doing things and learning and growing.  So working has always made sense to me.  Luckily, The Boy has expressed his desire to be a House Husband…mostly so he can mold our children into little sports fanatics.)

(That’s it.  I’m staying home.) 

I get the sneaking suspicion that these girls are buying into the latter. 

The funniest and saddest thing about this is that buying into that mentality actually makes marriage and relationships harder.  If you think about men as embodiments of traditional roles, all their actions fulfill those roles.  It’s a mental strategy that forces your brain to interpret the world in a way that always molds to your core understanding of the world so your world isn’t turned upside down when that core understanding is challenged.

I think having such a limited core understanding is detrimental to yourself and your relationship with men. 

You stop seeing men as individuals, with unique personality traits.  Nope, they all conform to the central image - they all like big trucks and having lots of tools.

But if you see people only for the symbols of themselves, you never see them for who they truly are.

The Boy knows little about "man things" like financial matters, fixing things, cars.  He’s sensitive, family-oriented, and loves kids. He loves Whitney Houston and Celine Dion, to the point where I have to tickle him to get him to stop singing in falsetto. 

On the other hand, I have my own (pink) tool set.  I read up on interest rates and investments all the time.  I have a soft spot for 60s rock and the dorky metal bands my dad loves. I’m secretly sacred of children (what to do?  Why are they crying?  Are they supposed to talk at 1 year or 2?)

This isn’t to say The Boy is effeminate - not at all.  And I am certainly not masculine.  But if we didn’t see those qualities in each other, we couldn’t appreciate each other, couldn’t know each other fully, and certainly couldn’t work as well as we do. 

No wonder your husband "doesn’t listen" - men aren’t supposed to.  No wonder he doesn’t help around the house - that’s women’s work.  No wonder you need to complain about him to everyone else and have huge fights - you’re not talking to him about what’s bothering you!

Is this little rant judgmental?  Probably.  Do I care?  A little.  But not really.  Because seeing this makes me realize two critical things:

a) This is why getting married before all your self-understanding is fully formed (which usually happens later rather than earlier) is a bad idea.

b) Good Lord, I need to go back to school. 

I love dancers.  But I have a soft spot for two types of dancers in particular: male dancers and newbies.

Now, before you get all accusatory on me, my soft spot for male dancers has nothing to do with attraction of any kind.  It’s more admiration.  Male dancers, but especially young male dancers, get so much flack for being dancers.  Imagine being in high school and having people know you take ballet classes?  Can you imagine how much teasing they must endure?  Truth be told, you must really, really love something to deal with all of that and not chicken out.  Thus, I assume, rightly or not, that male dancers must love ballet at least as much as I do, if not more.

Also, male dancers inherently jump higher than us ballerinas.  And that just looks awesome.  We had a visitor in our class demonstrate his grande jetés the other night.  This kid is 15 years old and has legs of pure muscle.  Just muscle.  He could literally jump over my head and stick the landing - at 15.  It was awesome to watch.  So watching male dancers gives you something to aspire to - my buddy Norman has started competitions with us girls in his class when we do changements.

I also love newbies.  Adult newbies are the best - they are so eager to learn, even when they start out intimidated.  A newbie in one of my classes was so scared to watch us at the barre and so confused when the teacher started dishing out random French words she tried to leave.  But when that happens we just flock around the newbie and start demonstrating - "no, see you’ll be fine - I just started learning again too.  This is first position, with your feet in a V…"  "See, she wants us to fondue, which means to melt - just like the cheese dip.  So that helps you visual the motion - you melt down into a deep bend, then stretch your legs out long and slowly like you’re pulling them apart…"

You can imagine our delight, then, when we got a male newbie on Monday.

This poor kid is trying to dance barefoot (ouch!), utterly confused.  He couldn’t for the life of him figure out how many steps to take before trying to jump, and he certainly couldn’t figure out how to bend one leg while keeping the other leg straight. 

We ate him up.

After class, all of us crowded around him: "you’re doing just fine, you’ll get the hang of it." "Don’t worry if it’s confusing, especially with all the French words - you’ll get used to it once you know what they mean." "Just watch everyone else to follow along."  "I have a video you can borrow to practice the positions."  "If you go online there’s a great dictionary of all the terms with videos demonstrating how they’re supposed to look."

It’s a great feeling, passing on the love.  I hope he comes back.

My intermediate ballet class with the S.E.A.L. has been canceled.  I am extraordinarily upset.

The begining ballet classes with the S.E.A.L. are packed to capacity.  If 4 people weren’t on vacation, we wouldn’t be able to fit the whole class in the room.  And our instruction already acts as an intermediate class - we’re working on complex adagios and jumping sequences.  There are at least 6 people in that class perfectly capable of keeping up with the S.E.A.L.’s intermediate class.  They may stink like me, but they could keep up.  However, these people refuse to move up to the harder class, resulting in our intermediate class having only two registered students and thus being canceled.

The reason for all this?  They’re all pansies.

Seriously.  If you’re scared of the S.E.A.L., and I know I am, you need to just plug your nose and jump in and wait for the pain to start.  But what is this hanging around in the beginning class? 

I know I took the plunge so I can eventually be in the advanced class, taught by whom I will dub The Master. 

If you think the S.E.A.L. sounds intimidating, The Master will kill you. 

We hear him conducting his class, literally shouting out orders (he sings instructions to the music - it’s terrifying and exhilerating at the same time).  Balances are for 32 counts - minimum (S.E.A.L.’s max is 16 counts).  Legs are at least 90 degrees, or you might as well keep it on the floor (you can get away with 60 degrees with the S.E.A.L., if she’s not looking).  What do you mean you’re not down in your split yet (I’m not)?  You’d better be down with your nose to the ground.  I’ve seen The Master make the company members (i.e. people who do this for a living) collapse after his jumping sequences.  They start off grande jeteing just fine, but after six minutes of continual leaping, they just kind of stop and walk to the side of the room.  He kept one member (who had the most gorgeous back I’ve ever seen, by the way) after class for 20 minutes practicing turns in succession.  She did not go off pointe for 20 minutes.

This, my friends, is The Master.  And he puts the S.E.A.L. to shame. 

Sure, this scary.  But if your goal isn’t to one day be killed by The Master, what’s the point?

I can’t wait for the summer session to start when I get to take all intermediate classes.

Pansies.

There have been lots of things bugging me lately, not the least of which include maternal issues, religious debates, failing "get bikini-body ready" campaigns, realizing I’ve been here 6 months and *sniff* don’t really have friends who don’t tell me there’s something wrong with me every five minutes because I’m not married, impending major career decisions, and being supportive of The Boy as he mourns his beloved grandfather who passed away.

So sometimes, when things are crummy, it’s nice to take your mind off them for a while.  The Boy and I have been doing that by watching unhealthy amounts of Arrested Development and treating ourselves to glorious meals at what has become known as The Barrel (yes, that Cracker Barrel.  Hey, it’s cheap, okay!  And this being Crackerbarrelville, there’s one every 0.6 miles.  And I love their chicken and dumplings so much I order them by their proper name: chicken n’ dumplins).  I’m going to offer you the same escapism with more happy posts.

Like this one in which I explore further my strange musical taste.

I’m surprisingly behind the times in terms of music.  I haven’t bought a CD in at least a year and a half, primarily because I find paying $18 for 11 songs, 2 of which I will enjoy, to be an unmanagable extravagence.  I also no longer own a CD player besides my computer (good Lord, is this possible?  It is!  I gave my old one to my brother because I didn’t have room to lug it to college!  I just realized I only have a radio.  What is this, the 40s?).  I got an MP3 player for Christmas since my beloved one, complete with my Britney Spears album (yes, I know.  I’m getting help), was stolen from me.  This new contraption is the size of a pack of matches and comes with about 6 CD ROMs, so I have yet to get it to work.  Oh, and The Sexiest Car in the World (my 1992 Ford Escort station wagon in fire engine red)?  Does it have anything besides an AM/FM radio?  Please.

I used to think all of these constraints meant I just wasn’t a big music fan.  But I don’t think that’s true at all.  I think I’m just cheap.

With all those excuses in mind, here is an attempt at entertaining musical suggestions.  Keep in mind these change daily based on what the good old disc jockeys play.

Best Song to Wake Up to:

Alanis Morisette: All I Want

(Oh, Alanis, where did you go?  When are you going back to the time before you went around naked and playing God?)

Best Song to Go to Sleep To:

Anna Nalick: Breathe (2 am)

(Derrik loves you, Meredith!  He really loves you!)

Best Song to Rock Out to While Driving:

Bryan Adams: Summer of ‘69

(Makes me want to be in a band)

Best Song to Listen to While Driving to Get Pumped Up for Ballet:

Sean Paul: Temperature

(Changes weekly, but this has stuck around and become more than the Verizon Commercial Song.  This category is always some sort of hip-hoppy pop - don’t ask)

Best Oldies Song:

The Beach Boys: Kokomo

(I’ve been belting it out since I was 4 years old)

Best Song to Jitterbug to:

The Foundations: Build Me Up Buttercup

(My dad and I jitterbug to this in the living room every time it comes on)

Best Song to Practice Fouettees to (don’t ask):

The Rolling Stones: Paint it Black

(That opening rift gears me up to be an Odile every time…at least, until I whip my foot into the kitchen counter and end up crying the rest of the song)

Best Song to Practice Grand Jetés to:

Vivaldi: Spring

(You can just hear it - run, run, run, LEAP!)

Best Song to Pretend You’re a Sexy Blonde to For Four Minutes:

Def Leppard: Pour Some Sugar on Me

(My high school best friend who, shall we say, was a bit more wild than me, used to beg me to join her in jamming to this in our backyard wearing a bikini top and shorts.  I always sang along from the sidelines, wishing I could be as cool as her.)

Best Seventh Grade Memory Song:

Ace of Bace: Dancer in a Daydream

(The complex allusions in this song give it such longevity.  I also knew The Boy was the one for me when he could belt it out along with me.) 

Best Song to Start a Run to:

Snap!: Rhythm is a Dancer

(This gets me going everytime…stupid thieves stole my only copy.)

Best Britney Song Before She was Oversexed:

Britney Spears: Crazy

(This was back when we had the same hair so people said we look alike.  No more!)

Best Britney Song When I Still Wished I Had Her Abs:

Britney Spears: I’m a Slave 4 U

(Ignore the fact that this is the stupidest song ever.  Pay attention to the abs, people.  The abs.)

Best Third Grade Memory Song:

Debbie Gibson: Electric Youth

(We neighborhood girls used to rock out to this song.)

Why Britney Will Never Be a Debbie Gibson:

Debbie Gibson: Foolish Beat

(No comments necessary.)

This is fun!  I’ll do more the next time things aren’t going so great!