I don’t dance. Wait. Let me rephrase this; I don’t dance sober. If you knew me through college you would know a little number that I do after vodka has been introduced into the evening—it may, or may not be called The Sloanie Dance. I may, or may not, have forced my friends to circle up and go through a seminar on how to Sloanie Dance. Again, I am neither confirming nor denying this.
But in my normal every day life, I do not dance. Can’t hold a rhythm to save my life. I am the equivalent of that tall skinny white guy that bops his head, and looks around to try and mimic what everyone else is doing while longing to be somewhere else. I know, I know Why the eff is she talking about NOT dancing? Well, today after my run I was undressing for the shower and got down to my sports bra. While taking it off I found it’s much easier to shimmy and sorta shake it off my body.
Not really dancing but funny enough to make me bust out laughing at myself when I realized what I did just to get undressed. It was probably the least sexiest thing ever, but still, pretty funny. It’s weird the things we do in our everyday life that no one else knows about—until now.
What do you do in private that makes you laugh at yourself?
Though no longer this crazy skinny…The Sloanie Dance is still the same.
My friend Fabulous learning
Bust it good! At home
New Years 2008 Ringing it in!
PS: You can hire me to teach private Sloanie Dance lessons. All I require is vodka, music and some attention.
I don’t dance. In most cases I choose to spare people (and myself) the embarrassment of overtiring their eyes, smiling uncomfortably and dodging flailing body parts. But every once in awhile something moves me, (something other than a bit of liquid courage and a cute guy…) this past weekend I was able to attend Mountain Jam Music Festival in beautiful upstate New York. Now, I could go on and on about how beautiful the ski resort was, how the trails were probably build for running rather than skiing or mountain biking. I could talk about my hike/run up a double black diamond and how the wind at the top nearly blew me off the rock—but I’m not going to talk about this, I’m going to talk about dancing.
I’ve always loved music but have never felt elated, never felt like I was flying when listening to it. This whole week I was dancing, sober. At the booth (I was there working) I could hear some tunes from the main stage and grabbed a hula-hoop and spun in circles with a 5-year old. As I rode the chair lift to the top I phoned my brother and couldn’t help tapping my foot in the air and my feet dangled high above the other festival goers. As Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros played on the stage I danced. I hippie danced in the dirt and ignored everyone else around me and let the music take me away. I watched my feet become covered in dirt and create faux tan lines, the smile on my face was natural and pure. [notice in the video the camera starts to bounce, that’s me trying to dance] —I’ve been unable to upload the video, I’ll work on it and get it up eventually! (ooooh, technology)—-
Later in the evening when Government Mule, My Morning Jacket, Umphy’s McGee… played—I danced, hard. I danced and danced and floated up and up. I ignored all inhibitions and just moved with the music I heard. Sometimes letting go in the best to escape and feel good. The weekend was filled with body moving. Between mornings running or hiking up the ski mountain, hooping and slack lining at the booth, dancing (at least what I called dancing.) The atmosphere created by this music, the looming mountain tops and a sun shiney weekend—was perfect.