Tag: Body Image

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Valley Girl Attorney Will NOT Be Going to Bahia!

decision I won all ready to be served

Yesterday at work, I got a call from a reporter from a big law journal here, wanting to do a short interview with me about the case I recently won. I was getting lunch when he called, so he left a message. When I returned to my desk and listened to my voice mail, I freaked out a bit. I’ve never spoken to the press before! So, I re-read my brief and the D.A.’s brief, re-read the Court’s decision about eight or nine times, even re-read some of the cases I relied on and the Court cited. I was so nervous. I mean, I think I am the typical appellate attorney: i.e. a bookish writer-type, who can’t talk her way out of a paper bag — which is why I am an appeals lawyer, and not a trial one, after all! Ugh. I took so much time re-reading everything in sight, that I must have returned his call too late in the day, and missed him, because I sat by the phone, like a high-schooler waiting desperately for the boy she likes to call her back, until well into the evening. Around 7ish, I finally decided it was time for me to leave the office for the day; I figured he’d call back tomorrow.

I was so frazzled in the evening, I thought I’d better do something to bring my stress level down a notch. So … I took a dance class of course! But, in keeping with my New Year’s resolution to not spend so much money, I opted for a street Samba class at the Alvin Ailey extension, for $15, instead of another ballroom lesson, for about $10,000. Which means, I saved $9,985!!! Which means I can attend one more Met ABT performance!!!

Seriously. Street Samba: insane. INSANE. I’ve never felt so stupid in my life! We started out doing these crazy stretches, making me realize just how inflexible I really am. Then, only a half an hour into the hour-and-a-half-long class, the teacher — the other-worldly, completely beyond human, impossibly amazing, Quenia Ribeiro, began with like, advanced advanced ADVANCED hip swaying, pelvis contorting, just crazy moves. The class was supposedly for beginners!?! First step — FIRST step — was this African-based (I know this, because I’ve seen it at Broadway Dance Center‘s West African class’s student showcase) traveling move, except instead of simply opening up arms and legs as wide as possible sideways while somehow bouncing forward, she moved her pelvis back and forth in this really beautifully sexy way. I tried and tried and tried to imitate her, but couldn’t in any way, shape, or form do anything even close to her with my mid-section. Happily, I managed to figure out where my feet, at least, were supposed to go on the floor. Right at the second I was feeling like, okay, I look like an enormous ass, but at least I know where TO GO on the floor, the drummers started drumming (live band by the way, singing in Portuguese, which means they were really Brazilian — how the hell they managed not to laugh themselves silly watching us, I’ll never know…) , and Quenia started moving AT THE BEAT THEY WERE BEATING TO — basically, the speed of light. In trying like hell to keep up, I flailed about wildly, smacking this poor Asian woman next to me right in the face. She stepped on me, though, so it was okay! Seriously, the few of us in the back section were spending more time apologizing to each other than anything else.

It didn’t take me long to realize it was just not going to be happening with me. I mean, this woman just moved in ways that I didn’t know possible. Her pelvis was darting back and forth — both front to back and side to side, so fast it was just a blur. I had to grab onto the back barre just to steady myself while watching her. This was NOTHING like the ballroom style of Samba I know! Had nothing in common with it whatsoever. I mean, it was still interesting, but just wasn’t me. As a skinny white girl, I know I will never ever EVER be able to move like this woman. And the funny thing is, after I finished my rotation squirming down the floor I stood at the back barre and watched the rest of the students. And, apart from about four really good ones, who you could tell were her very serious dedicated students, no one was really dancing Samba. They were all, however, rocking out madly, and were laughing hysterically and obviously having great fun doing so — unlike me, who just couldn’t get over the fact that I couldn’t do it properly. The really fundamentally pathetic thing about me, I realized, is that, these people, though they weren’t doing Samba, still all had obviously danced a lot at clubs before and just had either a natural or developed sense of rhythm and awesome, for lack of a better term, booty-shaking skills. I, on the other hand, had none. They may not having been dancing Samba but they were most definitely DANCING; I — I looked like Gumby basically.

Well, I felt STRONGLY like giving up, but forced myself to give it the old college try — more because I knew I’d feel stupid making a scene either walking out of class or sitting down in back than anything else. The reason I managed to make it through the whole class — nearly the whole class anyway — was because I assured myself that, even though I was making a gigantic ass of myself, no one was looking at me; people were concentrating on themselves, on having themselves a blast. And this little mantra worked. Until …

alvin ailey extension school

…until I turned to look out the window, and saw, to my horror, about twenty to thirty people — men, women and children, on the outside of the building staring right back at me, bemused looks overflowing their faces. Turns out this handy little covering on Ailey’s ground-level studio windows is not really a covering — if outsiders walk up close, they can see everything going on inside. And since Samba is so much blasted fun, the music pouring out through the windows and onto the sidewalk, we attracted the attention of every passerby… And I had thought I was SMART to stay in the back of the class — ie: by the window, and not by the mirror! Idiot idiot idiot!

Anyway, I tried and tried, but to no avail. I never did get it. Just when I thought we were done, at about ten minutes until the end of the hour, and everyone was applauding the band, Quenia announced that we’d now completed the Bahia part of the class; now, it was time to learn the Rio style. Good lord, I thought; there’s more?! And funny thing, absurdist thing was, Rio was actually much closer to what I knew from ballroom! I mean, there was still a lot of upper-body arm and upper torso movement, and hips were looser and steps bigger, but I actually recognized some of the moves! I saw bota fogos, and voltas, and bachacatas — my favorite!!! I nearly peed my jazz pants! Legs were kept a little closer together than in Bahia, and Rio was, to little ballroom whitey me anyway, more familar to my body, more jazzy, more Latiny, just more me. And I swear, Quenia looked right at me when I was coming down the line, and just kind of smiled, as if to recognize that (even though there were at least 20 students in the class), she could see how much trouble I was having with Bahia (you’d have to have been blind not to); and now here I was doing something not completely ludicrously wrong! Ah! So, at least now I know that Rio-style Samba is the kind that I like, that I can actually aim towards even if, with my body type, I may not ever look completely right doing it… Throughout class, I was thinking how much I just wanted it to end, how I’d look back on this and laugh but would never ever come back, but at the very end of it, I was actually reconsidering. Maybe I will visit Quenia again, especially if she spends more than the last ten minutes on Rio!!! Anyway, my mind was very successfully taken far off of reporter guy!

First thing this morning, he called. The minute the phone rang, I reached for the paper on which I’d written out my ‘statement.’ Of course, once I started to recite it, he interrupted and started asking me some questions. And he was so nice and warm and easy to talk to (do they learn to be this way in J school??) I couldn’t help but just go along with him and speak what I thought, off the top of my head. After I hung up, I realized that, though I said what I wanted to say content-wise, when I’m relaxed and speaking freely, I tend to use lots of “likes” and “totallys” and “I means” and “ums,” and now I’m all worried, if he took down word for word what I said, I’m going to sound like ‘Valley Girl attorney’! I can just see the write-up: “‘I was like, oh my god, I totally can’t believe the trial Judge like did that, like that was soooo totally wrong,’ says Ms. Plank…” My office-mate assured me that I most definitely did not sound like that, but I’m still worried! Will have to wait and see…

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Evil Biscuits 'N Gravy!

biscuits and gravy

I ate way too much of this over the past week! I know it doesn’t really look it, but it is just so yummy! Definitely my very favorite southern dish. I gained six pounds, in just one week … Jacob took one look at me last night and said, “okay, let’s talk about music!” He’s going to be gone next week at a competition in Las Vegas, so I have two weeks to lose it before lifts begin again! Seriously, methinks I am finding a rather not so good connection between ballet and standard ballroom involving body image. Now that I have decided to do a Tharp Sinatra Suites-esque routine with Jacob, i.e. foxtrotish waltz, rather than Latin, I just keep envisioning myself romantically floating across the floor, lightweight and feathery. Latin is more about connecting to the floor, being, not heavy, but just solidly grounded. Plus, Latin dancer bodies are usually voluptuous and curvy and buff. Standard bodies are more light and weightless-looking, like ballet. Meaning, ugh, weight consciousness time…

Anyway, Jacob cracks me up. I’d bought several Sinatra and Harry Connick Jr. CDs in North Carolina so that I could listen to them on my 11-hour train ride home, and hopefully, find a good song for our next routine. I found four possibilities on the classic Sinatra CD, which I stupidly forgot to take out of the disc player and put back into its holder, which of course I remembered to bring with me to the studio but left the disc player at home. I was so mad at myself. But Jacob simply asked me what the names of the songs were, most of which I didn’t know, then asked me to sing some of the words, hum the tune even, which I did. And he named each and every song! Even with my horrible singing! We ended up deciding on “Luck Be a Lady Tonight,” which I like because it has a few different rhythms that we can play around with, and fun, saucy lyrics that can be acted out. So, it’s not a straight, syrupy love tune. Should be fun. We started playing around with choreographing the beginning, during which he took me down about three-quarters of the way into the splits, which I surprised myself by being able to do. Guess helium-filled stomach did not affect my flexibility too much! Anyway, I think it will be a fun routine.

Here are some more pictures of my trip down south to visit Mom.

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Learning Something About Yourself Through Dance…

Not to sound maudlin and syrupy, but you do. One day at work a while back, I was having a stress attack (which happens not infrequently for me) and needed a breather, so I visited Ballet Talk (one of my many dance ‘breather’ websites) and took this completely goofy “Which ABT Ballerina Are YOU?” test that someone had posted. The test asked you both ballet questions (like which ballets, or which characters, you liked best) and more general personality questions like what’s your favorite color, image, word, how your friends describe you, what you look for in a mate, etc. I worship Alessandra Ferri — think she is by far the most artistically brilliant ballerina in the world right now, so assumed I’d get her. But instead I got Gillian Murphy, an allegro ballerina known for her athleticism, amazing speed, fast fast multiple turns, sky-high jumps, etc. And, in my little critique, it said that I was a great athlete and had boundless energy, and now I just needed to work on developing my artistry a bit! I laughed, thrilled at having got as my ABT avatar the ballerina who is probably, judging by the wild screams in the audience everytime she takes the stage, everyone else’s favorite!

Well, Luis and I taped ourselves dancing our routine earlier this week, and I just got up the courage to watch it. I’m in shock. I screwed up right and left — and there is a lovely shot of me covering my mouth bashfully after whacking my hip into his pelvis on a back cha cha — can I cover ANYTHING up?! And I seem to have this surprised, open-mouthed look on my face the entire time — like I can’t believe I’m actually dancing a Latin routine. BUT, with all the mistakes and silly faces, my body actually looks OKAY doing this crazy-ass, every-other-step-an-insane-trick, lightning speed mambosambachacha dance. Of course I need centuries of practice… but I re-viewed my tape of Pasha and me doing our soft, pretty, slow, romantic Rhumba, and I can’t believe it, but I look better with crazy Luis. I always thought that, with my ballerina-y body — ridiculously long legs and arms, long, thin sinewy, flexible muscles, feet with enormous arches, long goose neck, tiny bird-like head, etc. etc., I’d definitely look best doing a slow romantic dance. Speed-of-light-paced Mambo that requires smallness, not to mention sexy curves, was probably the farthest from what I would think would look good on me. I agreed to do Luis’s routine because — apart from the fact that I’d met him in one of the group classes he was teaching and really really liked working with him — I thought it would challenge me; would at least make my friends laugh if and when they saw me perform it. So, basically, the thing that ended up being a real challenge for me was the thing I thought was my thing. Hmmm…

One reason Rhumba’s so hard for me is that I go way way WAY too fast; Pasha’s always yelling at me to keep the time, count out loud if I have to. And everytime I count, he tells me I’m completely right, so if I can count, I should be able to keep the time with my feet. And yet I can’t — I’m just so impatient; I just want to go go go. And then I realized, that’s how I am in life too — I’ve been known to speed down our office hallway or round a corner so fast, I’ve blown paperwork right out of a co-worker’s hands; I’m always being asked to slow down while walking with friends; I not infrequently smack angry pedestrians with my ginormous ABT dance bag while speed-walking down Manhattan sidewalks; I talk so fast in the courtroom I’ve had judges tell me to stop my argument and start over; I sometimes get so impatient waiting on a subway I want to kill the train conductor by the time the train arrives. I do everything fast — except eat, and that’s only because I developed a swallowing disorder and was forced to calm down, in order to feed myself and to live, basically. I can’t even have a severe headache without jumping around… —speaking of which, I went to my primary care doctor yesterday for a check-up and she read to me the Columbia headache specialist’s report. He said all positive things like ‘patient was well-groomed’ and ‘dressed appropriately’ and ‘spoke articulately,’ but then at the end said, ‘patient somewhat anxious.’ ‘Somewhat anxious’ – -who me? I remember how, in an acting class I once took at HB Studios, we did a relaxation exercise and my teacher kept ordering me to stop moving and relax. I tried and tried and tried, and absolutely could not stop: swinging my leg; tapping my foot; rubbing my knuckes; crossing and uncrossing legs… anything but keep completely still. Why?
Oof, maybe that stupid ABT test was right! Maybe if I had dedicated my life to dance, I would have been a sparkly, piquant allegro, and not a beautiful, lyrical, poetic adagio ballerina, as I see myself in my dreams (assuming I’d made it in the cutthroat world of ballet, of course…). Now in adulthood, maybe a crazy, fast-paced Latin dance is more me than a soft pretty one. Or, maybe Rhumba is doing me some good; perhaps I should learn to take my time more in life: smell the proverbial roses, don’t rush, don’t choke, taste the food, feel the music, feel the character, feel my partner, finish the pretty line, just enjoy…

Anyway, Sunday evening, my former West Coast Swing team had a partial reunion. Here is a photo. One of our teammates, Jackie Draper, gives a cabaret performance at Danny’s Skylight Room in the theater district about every six months, and as many of us as possible try to go — we kind of use her performances as our little reunion time. This one was special, because Jackie entitled her show “Something to Dance About” and she had a little segment where she talked and sang about our team. The team was a really fun experience — probably the best competition experience I’ve had. In fact, Dance Times Square had all of the showcase participants fill out these little questionnaires about ourselves, and one question was what our favorite competition experience was. I put mine was getting plastered with my teammates after finishing our final competition last May at the Grand Swing Nationals in Atlanta, and reuniting with my former teammates every so often in NY. In the vast majority of competitions, the student competes on his or her own with a teacher; very few comps have a team event unfortunately. With a team, you’re all in it together, and you bond in ways that you just don’t bond with, for example, other students from your studio who are also competing with your teacher, and whom you’ll therefore spend a lot of time with at a comp. A team comp is an unforgettable experience. Anyway, we will probably have our next little reunion at, yikes, MY showcase, which Jackie bluntly reminded me was coming up in less than a month. They’re now putting up posters around the studio… Help.

Oooh, just realized I have no underwear for tomorrow… geez, I have been dancing way too much and neglecting my life. Before I forget, here are a couple of pictures of the artwork I bought in Martha’s Vineyard last month when I went out there to see Stiefel and Stars. Okay, off to do emergency laundry…

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Nipple Covers, Sore Crotches, Gay Men, Breasts, and Self-Analysis…

Ah, such is the world of ballroom dancing!… Seriously, just when I was going to bitch to high hell about gay men not having any clue as to female needs for modesty, my wonderful teacher, Luis, has redeemed himself and agreed to let me wear for the showcase a cute but covering halter top! Initially he wanted me to wear a bikini top. I told him no way, with all the lifts, dips, fish dives, back bends, rag dolls, upside-down-shakes — there is no way; my boobs will definitely fly out! Definitely. When I explained this to him, he looked at me as if I was speaking another language. I think that because breasts are completely meaningless to gay men, breasts shooting out of skimpy costume tops mid-performance are likewise wholly uneventful… When I stared him down, he finally got it, and said, “Well, if it’s that big of a deal, you can get nipple covers, you know.” No, I didn’t. What are nipple covers, pray tell — does anyone know?? I am so not a real dancer!! Anyway, I showed him various pictures of alternatives to skimpy tops, and he brightened considerably when I showed him one of me in my former West Coast Swing team outfit, the top part of which was a halter. Yay, agreement! No, seriously, I jest: Luis is great! He okayed my new LaDuca shoes as well (pronounced them ‘cute’ even!), which is really cool because, though they’re not standard Latin dance shoes, they are closed-toed, and since I have such high arches, it’s very difficult for me to wear open-toed shoes because my feet tend to slide out of them whenever I point. So, anyway, today I trekked out to my (well, shouldn’t say ‘my’ since virtually everyone in the Latin world uses her) Russian seamstress, Valentina, all the way out near Brighton Beach so she could update my measurements and sketch what I wanted. She did my last competition costume for me, and nothing fell out, so I trust her. Think I’ll still try to get a hold of some of those nipple things though, as well as some serious double-stick tape. You can never be too careful in the oh so costume-malfunction-prone world of Latin Ballroom dance…

Last night, Luis and I went straight through our routine twice, no stops! It was the most intense workout I think I’ve ever had. I told him so and he laughed, “What do you mean, I’m the one doing all the lifts!” Which is true. I try to help, I really do, I swear!!! And his crotch must be extremely sore today — we do this one trick called a “snake,” where I go into a dip, then slide between his legs, feet first, then body, then head, ending up behind him facing sideways, and, I don’t know what it was, perhaps because I was wearing heels for the first time dancing the routine, but I kept whacking my head straight into his groin while trying to get it under. I’ve never done that before! Maybe it was subconscious anger over the skimpy top?! Ha ha ha 🙂 Anyway, poor Luis…

Last night, my friend took me out to dinner for watching her kitty while she was away visiting her boyfriend in Scotland — only to tell me she’s marrying the bf and moving to Glasgow! Which I was of course very happy for her for, though I am going to really miss her 🙁 But, hey man, why can’t I marry a Scottish boyfriend and move to Glasgow???????

But something in our dinner conversation ended up starting me on this self-analysis trip. She’s a freelance writer and editor (which is one reason why it’ll be relatively easy for her to relocate out of the country — lucky lucky lucky her!!), and in telling her I was thinking about trying to get into the same line of work, she suggested I begin regularly scavenging the paper recycling dumpster in my apartment building for magazines so I can think up stories. Which I did for the first time upon returning home last night. Found a lovely W magazine and Bergdorf Goodman catalog (the latter of which is almost like a Vanity Fair, interestingly, with all its articles on personalities, etc.). Ended up searching more for fashion ideas for my costume to present to Valentina today than story ideas… But at one point, I noticed something on the backs of both mags was ripped off. On further inspection, I realized it was the recipient’s name and address. Of course I immediately got all paranoid thinking on no, I always leave my name and address on my New Yorkers, Time Outs, Brown Alumni Mags, and ABA Law Journals before tossing them into the bin. What if … And then I thought, what? What if what? It’s interesting that someone did not want people to know that they subscribed to W and Bergdorf. I guess I don’t care what people are going to think of me based on my subscriptions… So I read TONY (doesn’t everyone?) and the New Yorker (don’t a lot of people?), went to Brown (everyone went to school somewhere…), and am a lawyer (it’s not like I’m the only one in this city…). And then I realized I’ve always been weirdly oblivious to what other people think of me. Maybe it’s because my reunion’s coming up, but then I began remembering how when I first started at my high school, I didn’t know anyone since I’d just been transferred from another due to redistricting, and I’d found this great little bench that was perfectly situated in the middle of the three buildings that comprised our campus, and right next to the lockers. My mom would pack me lunch, and I’d sit there on the bench with my little sack and eat while watching everyone. I’m weird — and this is probably why I ended up in New York — but I was just fascinated with watching how people interacted with each other, or didn’t, who rushed frantically from class to class or stopped at their lockers between periods, who sauntered coolly either putting on a false air of bravado or who honestly didn’t care if they were late, how different people dressed and what their clothes said about them, who was picked on, who was ridiculed — either to his or her face or behind his or her back, how the ridiculee dealt with it, who looked nervous, who else was a loner, etc. etc. etc. I loved watching people basically. One day, a teacher rushed up to me, and, tugging on my sweater, cried out, “honey, honey, why in the world are you just sitting here? I always see you sitting here all — ALONE!” And when I looked up at her, confused, she actually had tears in her eyes. She was truly worried about me. It never occured to me that I wasn’t invisible, or maybe not invisible, but just that people didn’t really think about what I was doing enough to be bothered by it or question it. Not long after that, I was reunited with a friend, Kelly, whom I’d known years earlier from elementary school. She was completely different now. She was now a normal 13-year-old girl obsessed with popularity and fitting in. She explained to me what popularity was (because I honestly hadn’t known), whom I should want to be friends with and kiss up to (even though I found their personalities repugnant), and what items of clothing and by what designers I absolutely must have (even if those clothes didn’t particularly appeal to me). High school ended up being the worst four years of my life. And I honestly wonder what my experience would have been like had I not sought out a friendship with Kelly, after that teacher freaked out over my supposed loneliness.

Anyway, I’m blabbering…

A couple of internet thingys I wanted to point out: first, this way cool blog — this woman is a total riot and I cannot stop laughing at the hilarious way she expresses herself, but her rants are also very thought-provoking and her blogroll educational. I serendipitously found her blog, oddly, after my orthopedist mentioned something about Maxalt, my headache med, being taken off the market for health reasons (after searching every nook and cranny of the internet, I’m now sure he meant Methanone). But she’d once blogged on the drug, so it popped into my search. And, after reading her recent entry on names and thus being prompted to think about the inherent racism of John Stossel’s recent 20/20 segment arguing that parents should be careful not to give their children odd (read: Black) names, lest they have a harder time in society, and then performing more internet searches, I eventually came upon this very interesting test, conducted by Harvard University. Take it! Take it! Everyone take it! It’s really interesting and makes you aware of how you think!

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Hauling My Saggy Ballet-Withdrawn Butt Off to Nationals…

… and more beach, given that the comp is in south Florida and hotel it’s in right on the beach. Except this time I’m not gonna be sharing a beach with a bunch of rich, older, fellow-saggy-rear-ended people as on Martha’s V., but with a plethora of real dancers. With perfect bodies. Oh well. And I have to wear my bikini so my mid-rif will tan, since Luis is making me wear low-cut fringe-y pants and a very short top for the showcase… But, despite my stupid body image issues, I am VERY excited for two reasons: first, because this is my first time at this one and it’s the largest Dancesport comp in the country, and second because Anna Garnis, my teacher Pasha’s partner, finally got all of her Russian documents in order (her Russian passport and U.S. papers had been stolen in the studio) and, having missed Blackpool and the Manhattan Dancesport comps (since she first couldn’t travel out of the country for the former, then was in Russia getting stuff taken care of for the latter), they are FINALLY going to be able to compete again 🙂 So, many many pics of them to come!

I had to go into my office today because I’d stupidly left a copy of my ticket order to the comp in my desk, which I hated to do because I knew no one was going to be working today and I absolutely detest being in large office buildings all alone. I’m always scared I’m going to get raped. It happened to an older friend of mine, albeit in the 70s when NY was much less safe, and security has been pretty decent since 9/11 but still … it creeps me out being in big buildings alone (plus, maybe has something do with the fact that I’m working on a disturbing sex assault case now…). Anyway, I’m very glad I went in because my Winger yoga t-shirt apparently came in on Friday after I’d left. Which is cool because now I can promote the Winger to my ballroom friends and family 🙂 It fits pretty good — normally I don’t like tight-fitting things, but I think it looks okay. Luis will definitely like it because he’s always telling me I need to be less shy and show my body more. Given that being more comfortable with my body is one reason I started Latin (others being learning about partnership and about Latin culture of course), I guess the form-fitting-ness is a good thing 🙂 Anyway, here’s a pic of little miss Modest Mouse in boob-enhancing Winger tee (and click on previous two for back of shirt, and for way fun packaging it came in! — I know, I’m a dork…)

Speaking of modest mouse-iness, my friend and I went to the New York Burlesque Festival at the Supper Club on Saturday night. It was very interesting. My friend LOVED it and is currently thinking up burlesque names for herself (and me). She has battled a weight problem all her life and I think it was a very positive experience for her to see so many different-sized women flaunting their bodies without a care to traditional male-defined standards of female beauty. As for me, it was fun because it was an alternative, gay and lesbian environment. If it wasn’t, I definitely would have been very uncomfortable. I have zero tolerance for frat boys and the stupid women who date them. And zero tolerance for men who can’t take their small minds off of boobs for five seconds… Anyway, some of the women were amazing dancers — there was this one troupe of about six women who did rather amazing lifts with each other. Delirium Tremens did a routine on pointe, and Harvest Moon did some amazing tricks while balancing a full glass of champage on various parts of her body. And there were two men — one who stripped down all the way, which was fun, and another dressed as a cowboy who turned his back the the audience, ripped his pants off, then pretended to get an erection (or maybe it was real, what do I know?!!) and turned around to balance the cowboy hat over it. Very fun night, and I’m glad Kristin Sloan posted a bit about it on the Winger!

I had my last lesson with Luis before missing two weeks (first for comp, second for his vaca), and it was quite frightening. We tried the overhead lift he wants to do at the end of the showcase routine but I’m supposed to support my weight with my arms pushing down on his shoulders, which is very very hard for me since I have ligament damage in my left wrist. I can’t even do normal push-ups with my left wrist; have to make a fist and balance my weight on my knuckles. So I don’t think I’m gonna be able to do the lift he wants. He said as an alternative that we could do one where I grab both of my ankles, but that’s going to require straddle splits, which are hard given my overstretched adductor muscle. A third possibility was doing a cartwheel over his head and landing on his back in a Sylvia-esque position, but that involves the same wrist activity as the first since I have to propel myself up and over with my wrists using his knee as a kind of vault. Ugh. He said those are the only three that will really work with what he wants to do (spin me around and around for several beats); the other ballet-y ones I liked are not geared toward the kind of crazy-ass Latin routine I’ve got myself into apparently. So, I’m supposed to decide whether I want to risk further injury to my wrist, possibly requiring surgery, or tearing my adductor?! Injuries are such a royal pain in the ass!!!!!

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Saggy Butt is the First Symptom of Serious Ballet Withdraw

And I have it big time. I’d tried on my bikini for my Martha’s Vineyard trip in my home mirror, but only viewed myself from the front; didn’t look at my lovely derriere until I got out there. Yikes. Alyssa told me to shut up and wear it to the beach anyway, as she was wearing hers and was suffering from the same problem, except hers was induced by withdraw from 20+ mile marathon-running, power yogalates, gymnastics and hiking all over such places as Bolivia and Egypt. Alyssa is the consummate amateur athlete, making my dainty ballroom dancing look like cheesecake in comparison. Still, we both have injuries and actually reconnected after not seeing each other for many months then serendipitously meeting at a physical therapy center in SoHo. Except, being the far more serious athlete, her injury was a lot more severe: she tore her hamstring in eight different places whilst doing the splits drunk at her birthday party. But good thing that came out of it was hooking up with the ER doctor… I LOVE Alyssa; thanks to her I have an inkling of what it’s like to be a Sex and the City character 🙂 And I love her for gamely trekking out there with me mainly to see Marcelo Gomes‘s first ballet (and David Hallberg perform it) in Stiefel and Stars, even though she’s not a big ballet fan. Thanks for keeping me company and being adventurous, Alyssa 🙂

The ballet, “Loving,” was beautiful! So sweet and romantic. Someone likened it to Robbins’s “Other Dances” to which I guess it was similar, but with several couples. And, not to be silly, but something about it kind of reminded me of the courting scenes in Martins’s French pastoral “Songs of the Auvergne”- maybe just because the students danced the corps parts. It was urbane, but there was something sweetly innocent and very slightly bucolic. David and Gillian were lovely as the leads — David is always so charming in his dancing. It’s funny reading him on The Winger, where he is just a guy — smart, thoughtful, sophisticated for his age, and somewhat bookish, but just a guy with a guy view of the world, not this princely dancer seemingly from another time. And the costumes, which, according to David, Marcelo designed, were gorgeous! The women and girls wore light summery dresses with haltery tops and flowing, knee-length skirts; Gillian’s top was white — a different color from the rest, and it looked perfect on her. I definitely think he has a future as a choreographer (not to mention fashion designer…)

Alyssa fell completely in love with Ethan, who did nothing more than introduce the school and the program, and apologize for not being able to dance, as he just underwent surgery on both of his knees. Women always fall for that man! I just find it funny that he didn’t even dance and Alyssa, being a normal female, still went for him. I guess it shows that so much of being a performer is personality. I like my favorites for the same reason; I probably just don’t get the appeal of Ethan because he’s straight! (Seriously, my gaydar sucks. Or maybe it’s that I have excellent reverse-gaydar. I met James McGreevey briefly while doing a judicial clerkship in New Jersey and crushed on him so badly; I’m attracted to them before they even know they’re gay…)

Anyway, besides the ballet, we went to the beach, did a lot of touristy things like visit the red cliffs at Gay Head Bluffs and the gingerbread houses in Oak Bluffs, consumed loads of good wine and seafood (me: Pinot Noir — liked it even before Sideways, I swear!, steamed scallops in a bun, wasabi-coated soft-shell crab, and cornbread-crusted cod; Alyssa: Bordeaux and lobster, lobster, and more lobster!), went to several art galleries (Alyssa’s an art history grad student), ate ice cream at Mad Martha’s in Oak Bluffs which our tour guide said is a favorite of Bill and Hillary, and did A LOT of shopping (I bought: a shiny fuscia purse; a tiny ruffly white top to go with this pink and white Betsey Johnson skirt I’ve long been trying to match; two books — one by Styron who once lived on MV about his depression, and one on being an artist by Anna Deveare Smith — at a bookstore owned by this fun, interesting woman who writes about ghost stories and gossip on Oak Bluffs and who’ll be writing a piece on the ballet in the upcoming Martha’s Vineyard Gazette which I will definitely keep my eyes open for; and two photographs, a sketch, and a print at two different galleries. Alyssa bought some wampun jewelry — made from the purplish coloring found inside the shells of clams native to the area, a sweater, an aromatic tea set for her godmother, and three books — one on African art, which is her area of specialization, and two by the writer / bookstore owner.) Here are some pictures of the trip.

Now we are back in NYC and I’m very nervous about all the work I have to do (basically research and write two briefs) before I head down to Florida for the US DanceSport nationals a week from tomorrow. We got back later last night than expected and I was very tired for my lesson tonight with Luis. He could tell, so instead of practicing lifts that could be dangerous when half asleep, he spent a lot of time talking over the choreography and brainstorming about my costume (I wanted a cute ruffly skirt and peasant top; he was thinking more hot pants with red fringe and basically no top — he’s got another thing coming; I don’t do skimpy tops ever but especially not with upside-down lifts…), and hair (he wants me to get extensions for fullness and for me to wear my hair in curlers all night the night before and all day the day of the performance (which is going to go over really well at work, especially if I get any surprise visits from clients’ families…). Ugh. AND, he decided to make some changes to the choreography — after listening to the music again, he felt one of the lifts should go in another spot than where it was. Which sent me into a frenzy. Apparently, he still does not realize that I’M A TOTAL AMATEUR and making any changes to the choreography a mere six weeks before the performance is nothing short of hysteria inducing. I’ve noticed that when I’m not dancing regularly, I get really nervous about my private lessons. It takes me forever to learn choreography, I’m scared of new things (like overhead lifts and dips where I have to support my own weight), and I just can’t move well (he tried to teach me how to shake my knees so fast that my whole body vibrates, and I could not for the life of me do it — it involves simply bending and straightening your knees, albeit at lightening speed…). Well, my hips and left knee are still a bit achy (from the tendonitis and slight meniscus tear, respectively) and my adductor muscle is still sore, but if I’m going to be donning tight ass pants and not have a nervous breakdown over minor changes in my routine, I’m definitely gonna need to go back to Steps…

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Dead Weight, Lightweight, and Boxing, Bullfighting Ballroom Dancers

“Dead weight. Dead weight. Dead weeiighttt,” Pasha kept moaning while shaking his head all throughout my lesson last week. Ugh. Could I feel fatter? I guess when we do this far-more-complicated-than-it-looks lift / dip / spin thingy that I stole from my favorite Latin diva, Karina Smirnoff, I’m supposed to hold myself up by pushing my pelvis as far into Pasha’s groin as possible. Otherwise, I’m “Dead Weighttt” ie: too much for him to hold up. It just feels weird and, like, violative of boundaries dare I say, since I’m crushing my bony crotch as far as possible into his. I guess real dancers get over the boundary thing fast. But I still don’t completely understand when guys tell me to hold myself up. I know I have to strengthen my body during a lift and hold my position as much as I can, so I’m not dragging him down, but how much can you hold yourself up while suspended in mid air? And what about during a dip when you’re supposed to be “dipping” at least part of your body downward?

Then, while choreographing a rag doll into our routine (I couldn’t find a good link to this, but it’s the trick all the dancers are doing in the party scene at the beginning of “Dirty Dancing” that so seduces Jennifer Grey), Luis kept telling me to put my body weight completely into his hands so he could control me, and the trick, better. I kept trying but I couldn’t seem to do what he wanted, and he kept saying he knew I wasn’t as lightweight as I felt and that I must not be trusting him with my whole weight. Ugh! I totally don’t get it — am I too heavy and not working hard enough to hold my own, or am I not heavy enough indicating distrust?? Are all male partners just different or am I nuts??!

Anyway, speaking of Luis, tomorrow night, he and Anya will be teaching the salsa lesson at Midsummer Night Swing! Be there!

And, this weekend is the super mad fun Manhattan Dancesport Championships at the Marriott in Brooklyn Heights. This is the most prestigious dancesport competition in the mid-Atlantic region and all of the top U.S. couples compete at it (so, look for Andrei Gavriline and Elena Kruyschkova in Latin, and Jonathan Wilkins and Katusha Demidova in Standard). The event begins Thursday with pro/am competitions (when students compete with their teachers), and continues through Sunday evening. Saturday and Sunday nights will be the most fun to watch since they are the professional comps. Saturday is pro Latin (dancers compete in: cha cha, samba, rhumba, paso doble, and jive), and will be followed by an exhibition by the lovely and amazing Sharon Savoy (who, with her old partner, David Savoy, has performed at the Olympics and was a driving force behind making Dancesport an official Olympic sport). Sunday night are the comps in pro American Rhythm (American-style cha cha and rhumba, bolero, swing, and mambo) and Standard (waltz, foxtrot, viennese waltz, tango, and quickstep), and is to be followed by a cabaret show choreographed by Las Vegas choreographer Wendy Johnson, who I’m told really knows how to create a spectacle. These competitions are all a lot of fun and this is one of the best: the crowd can get so raucous rooting for their favorites, the dance floor can start to resemble a boxing match (except the ‘boxers’ are wearing beautiful ballgowns and lovely smiles:)). I will be excited to see the Latin because, ever since Blackpool, I can’t seem to get the paso doble music out of my mind — it’s so dramatic! And you don’t exactly hear it often on the radio… This comp is a perfect way for people to be introduced to the world of Dancesport. It’s a bit pricey — evening tkts are $50, but it’s worth it because the fun lasts for at least six hours (far longer than a Broadway show!) and it’s for a good cause — the dancers’ awards; and ballroom dancers don’t make a lot of money, so they need those prizes…

Lastly, watching Julio Thursday night at the ABT was unforgetable. He will be missed,to make a massive understatement. My pictures are up. I was in the nosebleed section but you can still see the basic action. Enjoy!

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If It Takes Five Minutes to Make A Sexy Pose…

it’s not dancing, it’s modeling! Luis discarded all of the choreography he’d done so far, which was fine since I was having a ridiculously hard time remembering the small between-tricks steps, and decided to construct a series of sexy poses that I’m to hit on each of three beats at the start of the song (btw, don’t ever dance to Gloria Estefan — it sounds fun until you start actually to try to keep the beat and then realize how flipping fast it is!). We ended up spending most of the lesson on this since I was having such difficulty striking the perfect pose (especially on the exact beat), and he was being a perfectionist rearranging my hair (and teaching me how to flip it so it’d land just so), pulling back on my shoulders and pushing my chest out (don’t think I’ll ever stop having posture problems), adjusting pelvis, hips, arms, wrists, fingers, knees, toes, etc. etc. etc. ETC. to put me in the perfect state of sexiness (I LOVE working with a gay man!!). So, now I think I have the poses right, but it takes so long for me to strike it perfectly when I’m trying to move at lightning speed, and then it’s so hard to make sure I get the right connection with him so I don’t lose my balance and make him throw his back out catching me. We didn’t work on the overhead lifts since he was sore from moving over the weekend, but I think I am ready when he is. I think. I am trusting him more — we worked on this one trick where I fall forward (holding his hands of course) and before I hit the ground, he whips me up and turns me over and I slide up in a body roll. I know he’s strong and I’m not going to fall, but it’s one thing to know that in your brain and another to tell it to your body in the midst of the trick…

My former West Coast Swing partner, Mark, informed me that everyone in the WCS (how the dance is abbreviated in the “industry”) community is very excited about Benji Schwimmer making it to the finals on So You Think You Can Dance with his partner Heidi, who teaches at one of Mark’s studios. He said the judges seemed a bit confused about what exactly WCS was, but were very impressed, especially with Heidi. I saw a repeat of the show and remember seeing her in Blackpool do a demonstration on WCS versus Jive. She is truly an awesome dancer! I don’t watch a lot of TV because I am usually at either some studio or opera house at night (and tonight is Vladimir night at the Met!!!), but my WCS friends must definitely keep me posted on this! WCS officially on the dance map, yay!

I went to the New York City Ballet last night to see one of the new ballets they are putting on as part of their spring season’s Diamond Project, where they show brand new ballets by contemporary choreographers — one of the reasons I like that company — they perform a combination of classics and contemporary work, so you get a mix. This one was by a Russian choreographer, Alexi Ratmansky, called The Russian Seasons, and was very interesting — dramatic and humorous by turns, with plain but gorgeously-flowing costumes. I’ve seen all of the new ones except for two, and my favorite has been Evenfall, sweetly Swan Lake-like, by their resident choreographer, Christopher Wheeldon, who I think is a genius and have liked practically everything I’ve seen him do.

And, Lincoln Center is now gearing up for Midsummer Night’s Swing outside in the plaza! Luis and his partner, Anya, will be performing and teaching salsa on June 28th!

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Cadbury-Induced Tummy Pudge

After my two lessons this week I now realize how horrendously out of practice I am. Two weeks away from the studio for a beginning dancer is a serious recipe for failure. Before doing any lifts, I warned Pasha that all the Cadbury bars and black pudding I’d consumed in Blackpool had put serious pounds on me and when he frowned I pointed to my stomach, which has now developed a round little mass of pudge. Pasha is Russian (obviously) and thus given to brutal honesty, and he basically responded, oh that, that’s always been there… yes, everything is the same. Argh! I knew I didn’t have a completely flat stomach, but didn’t know it was that obvious… am beginning to think your dance partner knows your body better than anyone, including boyfriend… I also told Pasha about my toe, he asked if it was serious, I said no, just another stupid injury requiring yet more ice and Advil, and he shrugged his shoulders and said, we all live in pain; if it’s not falling off or cancer, you ignore it. Okay, am slowly learning the dancer way of life…

I’m really nervous about the upcoming performance though, because I seem to have forgotten: where my center is, how to spot, how to move my hips properly (without disconnecting them from my upper back and jutting them out too much) , can’t do a simple spin without wobbling all over myself . . . everything. And, I need to cancel my lesson next Wednesday with the immensely popular and hence impossible to re-book Pasha because I must go to ABT. Vladimir Malakhov is performing for practically the only time this season, and as I think he’s one of the two greatest male dancers in the world right now (the other being Jose Carreno, who is performing a splendid many times with ABT!), I must not miss it. I’ll just have to kill myself with ballet classes until October because, though it’s not Latin, ballet is ESSENTIAL to training in any kind of dance.

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I May Be a Latin Dancer But I am Not a D Cup!!!

Yikes. My showcase is in two days and my dressmaker is just now making the dress. I had wanted a ballet-style dress, much in the style of the gown Alessandra wears in the balcony pas de deux in Romeo and Juliet. But the fabric she chose, while beautiful, does not seem to be conducive to that style – or else she’s not sure exactly how to make it, being a Latin dressmaker. But the weirdest thing is that she seems to want to put these humongous bra cups into it. I told her they were too big – I’m a petite person and a definite B cup and I’ll look like Pamela Anderson. But she insisted they are Latin cups, and are what are used in Latin. The Pamela Anderson look might work if the dancer was staying on the ground and remaining upright, but I’m doing theater arts stuff – I’m going to go shooting right out of that bra during my fish dive. A guy who saw her fitting me said, “Don’t worry, the guys will love it.” Yeah, right. But seriously, she would not put a smaller cup into the bra, said she didn’t have any, this was the smallest a Latin cup came. Then, she said, “And besides, Latin women are proud of their bodies.” What? I’m not not proud – I’m just not a D. She finally said if I found other cups she’d be amenable.

So, next day at work, I called the ballroom dress store LeNique. An Australian guy answered. Embarrassed, I asked him if they sold bra cups. He said no, they had their own supply for their own dresses but didn’t sell them individually, although he thought some place in the Garment District did. I asked him if he knew where that place was, and he began thumbing through a phone book. Very nice guy. I felt badly about asking him to recommend another retailer, so I mumbled, “I’m sorry, it’s just that it’s kind of an emergency.” My office-mate started cracking up, and cried, “Help, I have a blind date tonight and he thinks I’m a double D; I need stuffing fast.” I shushed her, but LeNique guy overheard and started laughing. Anyway, he did end up finding a place for me in the Garment District – so thank you LeNique guy! I went on my lunch hour, and they had every cup size imaginable. Their cups actually looked a bit small. So I bought one B and one C. I mean, one pair of each, of course… I brought them to my dressmaker, and she rolled her eyes, and said they were not the right shape – too circular, instead of demi, and repeated that they weren’t Latin. She finally said she’d use whatever I wanted at this point.

I don’t think the dress is going to work out because the material’s just not right. But I still don’t get the Latin versus ballet thing – every Latin dancer is the same cup size? Stacey Keibler’s cups were smallish, weren’t they?

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Uptown Women Have No Bodies

Very annoyed. Many of my friends and family are crazed Dancing With the Stars watchers. So, I figured I’d let them know about the PBS special America’s Ballroom Challenge, a televised event that occurred at the Ohio Star Ball in November last year, in Columbus Ohio, which I attended and in which my teachers competed (and made the finals!). Anyway, the first half of it aired a few days ago. I asked everyone what they thought. One person exclaimed that obviously Dancing With the Stars must have unearthed the best-looking dancers and it was really hard to watch such homely people, even if their costumes were lovely. Another remarked that the beautiful ballroom gowns often conflicted with the dancers’ not so beautiful faces. Another said she couldn’t believe how fat most of the Latin dancers were and she’d never wear such a tiny costume. Another said she thought when the Latin dancers “squoze” their back muscles, the fat protruded, and she wouldn’t do that so much if she was them. (Because Latin dancing isn’t about really moving your body or anything…) I honestly have yet to hear one person tell me what they thought of the DANCING.

A few weeks ago, I attended a panel discussion on representations of the body in contemporary dance at the Dance Theater Workshop in Chelsea. All of the panelists, who were either choreographers or dance scholars, were total theory heads and I understood about a half of one percent of what they were saying. But one female scholar, was all too clear when she snidely remarked, “Well, up until recently dancers didn’t even have bodies, not to mention brains, and uptown they still don’t. Instead they have anorexia and bunions and nicotine addictions, since there’s no way you can remain 108 pounds without one.” Of course she was talking about ballet, and I don’t think she was talking about Jose or Marcelo or Angel. It was hard not to laugh at the way she said it, but the comment stung since I’m such a ballet lover, not to mention a petite woman. I assume the audience was filled with modern dancers, DTW being a modern dance theater, and I felt like everyone was looking at me as the representative of bodiless, brainless, male-dominated women – none of which I am just because I’m thin.

After thinking about it, I remembered that this scholar was tiny herself – couldn’t have possibly weighed over 108, if even that. And many of the critics of my fellow Latin dancers are large themselves. I guess it’s a form of female self-criticism to be most harsh on other women who seem to embody the physical problems we find in ourselves. Still, it bothers me that a female dancer’s worth seems to revolve around her body. It makes me feel like, what’s the point of working so hard on contracting and expanding my pelvis in Samba and my upper back and hips Rhumba if I’m just going to be the little spidery-limbed Balanchine girl.