In my effort to be the best me I can be and usher in my 32nd year of life, I have been a sweaty, disgusting, growling mess.
That’s right. I have been dancing.
If you are a part of the standard American cubicle village, you probably spend 75 hours on your arse and 40 of those using the virtual world to make your connections and get things done. I am no different. I like typing as fast as I can, getting things off of my to-do list, and checking out with Pinterest. Especially checking out with Pinterest.
But in my quest to get back to my more authentic self, I realize that I am missing connection. Connection as in, like actually touching people. Here in New York City, we play a daily game to see how we can get through the most crowded place in the nation while interacting with the absolute minimum. I find myself putting in headphones even when music isn’t playing to distance myself from the world. Although I did this originally to remain unfazed by the 384 cat calls I receive each day, I have quickly realized that the life I lead is one devoid of hugs, touches, and pats on the back. I am a Southerner. I cannot live like that, ya’ll.
In my effort to get back to what made 13 year old Kel Daroe smile, I have been spending an inordinate amount of time (and even more coins) on the dance floor. Monday is salsa. Wednesday is hip hop. Thursday is tap. Saturday is salsa party My back hurts, but I could not be happier. And the funny thing about happiness is that it can’t be contained. Happiness in one area of your life can’t help but spill into another.
Let me tell you a secret. I am in charge. I go to a job where I am known for getting things done. I stay there for an unreasonable amount of time. I go home to my single apartment, and arrangement that I have had for nearly 15 years. And I live the luxury of not having to ask anyone what I should cook for dinner or if they mind if I wear no pants.
It’s pretty luxurious at times. And other times, pretty freaking miserable. Introspection, therapy, and a session or two with a love coach have let me know that the characteristics that make me superwoman at work have me seem utterly unavailable and invulnerable to one of the things I want most–connection, community, and love.
But on the dancefloor, there is no pedigree. There is no superwoman. I cannot lead. The best I can do is follow. Truthfully, that is a great relief.
Deep down, I can’t change that much. I will still have to call the shots at work and at home.
But on the floor, I can wait for him to give me a signal and react just in time. I am a girl, apart from current cultural norms and expectations. I am free and I can breathe.
And boy, oh boy, can I dance.