Change prickles the air all around me and I squirm uncomfortably. I’ve been trained to cultivate balance, to inhale and exhale, but I fail miserably as I dart from one activity to the next. I don’t feel like I’m breathing at all and my eyeballs ache from tension. I can’t concentrate and I want to throw something hard at the wall. There’s nothing that I am able to control and so I feel helpless. And I hate feeling helpless.
I’m playing a waiting game. Waiting to hear back from so-and-so, which effects the decision I’m waiting on from so-and-so, as well as waiting for work to be done, for choices to be made, for actions to begin. And so I am biting my nails, gritting my teeth, and pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. Still, I cannot make anything happen yet.
I search schedule after schedule of dance studios. I want to take class and work and sweat. I need to get my endorphins to release. If I’m going to have to struggle mentally, I might as well do it physically, too. But none of the times work out for me and I end up frustrated and irritated.
And so I dance alone. I choose music that is moody, indecisive, yearning and melancholy. It reflects my simmering kettle of emotions. There’s not enough heat to boil, but there is enough to agitate. My anxiety is tangible, leaving a flat metal taste in my mouth. Perhaps it’s related to the lead that I feel in my chest. I force my hands to uncurl from the fists they are automatically making and begin walking around the pole. I let the music move my body. There is anguish in my movement, tense recoil in my muscles. I don’t worry about the tricks, but I push my lines further and further. The angles that I normally make become more elongated as I reach as far as I can away from my center. I don’t think. I just am.
I’m playing a waiting game. Waiting to hear back from so-and-so, which effects the decision I’m waiting on from so-and-so, as well as waiting for work to be done, for choices to be made, for actions to begin. And so I am biting my nails, gritting my teeth, and pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. Still, I cannot make anything happen yet.
I search schedule after schedule of dance studios. I want to take class and work and sweat. I need to get my endorphins to release. If I’m going to have to struggle mentally, I might as well do it physically, too. But none of the times work out for me and I end up frustrated and irritated.
And so I dance alone. I choose music that is moody, indecisive, yearning and melancholy. It reflects my simmering kettle of emotions. There’s not enough heat to boil, but there is enough to agitate. My anxiety is tangible, leaving a flat metal taste in my mouth. Perhaps it’s related to the lead that I feel in my chest. I force my hands to uncurl from the fists they are automatically making and begin walking around the pole. I let the music move my body. There is anguish in my movement, tense recoil in my muscles. I don’t worry about the tricks, but I push my lines further and further. The angles that I normally make become more elongated as I reach as far as I can away from my center. I don’t think. I just am.
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