THE LAST FIVE ...

Closing up shop
- Wednesday, Aug. 02, 2006

It may be time for a change
- Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Entry in the air
- Friday, April 21, 2006

Still here
- Thursday, April 20, 2006

Music of the moment
- Wednesday, March 1, 2006

Or ... BE RANDOM!


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101 in 1001
American Road Trip, 1998


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Chupatintas
Dancing Brave
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Kitty Sandwich
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Sideways Rain
Ultratart
Velcrometer


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Thursday, Jan. 16, 2003 - 10:53 a.m.

Public perception

The light red, I looked out the passenger-side window across 20 or so feet of parking lot to a storefront in a strip mall. It was all large-pane glass, with the exception of a knee-high wall or bench running from the door to the end of the storefront. Inside, a man and a woman glided gracefully across a dancefloor to music I could not hear. It was a dance studio and they were the only two people inside. He was older with salt-and-pepper hair and a medium build; she had her blond hair tied back in a long ponytail and looked a bit like Emily Procter (bad photo). I couldn't see their feet, but they moved seamlessly across the dancefloor, with twists and twirls incorporated without a hitch. The music was clearly upbeat. He'd twirl her around, his left hand maintaining contact with her right, and then place his right hand softly placed back on her left shoulderblade as they became synchronized again. They finished their routine with a few sideways hops toward the stereo in the corner just as the traffic light changed to green.

What struck me the most as I watched was their smiles. Cheerleading coaches, chorus directors, dance instructors will tell their students to smile, to look like they're enjoying themselves and having a good time performing for the audience. But these smiles were genuine, for there was no audience. Nobody was in the studio watching them, and although they knew their front windows were open to the world out on Hooper Avenue, they weren't paying attention to when or if people were watching. They smiled because they were enjoying themselves. I felt as if I was spying on a personal, intimate moment. I don't know the relationship between the two. It might have been instructor and assistant, filling the downtime before their next class; a father and daughter; a nice older man with a gorgeous younger woman. But I know they were happy in those few minutes I watched them glide across a dancefloor I couldn't see, taking steps I wouldn't have been able to decipher anyway.

I'd like to be able to dance, but I don't know if I have the coordination or aptitude. I can't even do the Electric Slide (though this isn't really a bad thing). I balk at dancing, even at bars and parties. Perhaps there's a bit of performance anxiety there. I have no trouble expressing myself publicly through words, something I've been doing consistently for a little more than eight years now. I've written in the college newspaper, where, on a campus of 10,000, I was recognized. I've written for the local newspaper � circulation more than 100,000 � back home; and I've written here, where the circulation is 28 (average) but the distribution is worldwide. But dancing, acting, performing � that's not my bag, baby.

But why? Why do we talk so much about being yourself, about casting off inhibitions and not caring what others think regarding some aspects of our life but balk at it with others? Granted, there are certainly people who can do that, and they often end up on The Real World. Just not me. I couldn't get excited and tell all my friends and family to watch me as I tried to hook up with roommates and talked about sex. Hell, I can't even bring myself to talk much about my sex life here, let alone in real time.

Sometimes I hold back not because of my own doubts, but because of the perception others will have concerning my decisions. Generally, the issue isn't significant enough for me to dwell for a long time about it. But something big, something like, say, marriage, that I tend to harp on longer. Casey and I are moving along at a fine pace, and it will happen, but little questions, little comments here and there tend to make me bristle. I know they shouldn't, but sometimes they just do.

It's something I want to work on about myself. When it's a personal decision, I shouldn't let others' force me into choosing one road over another. I shouldn't let their comments, their insinuations irk me. On the most basic level, that's why I'm pro-choice: I don't think abortion is a good thing, but dammit if I'm going to tell one of any number of random strangers how she should deal with her own body.

On a lighter note, I do it with music, too. There are enough Springsteen fans out there that I don't have to hesitate to praise him, but with some of my other favorites I balk at divulging my allegiance. Don Henley, Frank Sinatra, Garth Brooks, the Dixie Chicks, Bon Jovi � I own several albums of each and I still enjoy them (though, I admit, Henley's appeal is waning). Yet, I'll sit nervously when a coworker stops by my desk to browse through the CDs I've brought in that day.

So maybe this will be a resolution for the year � to become more comfortable with my decisions in relation to my perceived reactions from others. They're just perceptions, after all, my imagination. More often than not, I'm sure others will prove me wrong if I just give them the chance.

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