I just took my first bellydancing class.
Actually, let me re-write that statement. It needs exclamation points to properly exude my current emotional state.
I just took my first bellydancing class!!
Two exclamations for good luck and emphasis (I like my things in even numbers). It was perhaps one of the best workouts of my life, not to mention, a chance to do something I’ve always wanted to do. Shoulders. Chest. Hips. Thighs. I felt it—truly felt it—from head to toe.
That’s the beauty of all things which make me feel flexible, bendy, and powerful. I can control my body and how it moves; slight hits, elongated snake arms, tiny staccato shimmies, or drawn-out figure eights. Sensual? Or coy? Muscles burn, but I can’t help but want to keep going. Push through. I can do it.
The teacher—probably in her late forties—was beautiful. Exotic, serene, and simply beautiful. I couldn’t stop watching her. Even before she took her position up front, even before I knew who she was, I knew who she was. There she was, a crochet sarong—demure in a sea of brightly colored and well-ornamented waists—tied low on her hips. She was blessed with one of those small frames that couldn’t be overlooked no matter how petite she seemed; there was a presence about her. Commanding. Enticing. Knowing. Perhaps it was the waist-length hair, waves slightly frizzed from the humidity and sweat, pulled half up, half down. Au naturel. Or maybe it was those wide doe eyes; she’d occasionally wink as she looked about the studio at her students.
You could only imagine my surprise when she singled me out. “You’re a dancer, right?” She paused only to smile. “I can tell.”
I didn’t even get to answer.
But what I did get to do, however, was buy myself a hip scarf. It’s something I’ve wanted for the longest time and finally have; silly? Perhaps. Little things make me happy. The only difficult part was choosing; there were so many options. Lavender. A deep purple. Blues. Bright kelly greens. White. Silver or gold coins? Nearly every color and combination piled before me on the wooden table, each neatly folded in their respective plastic bags. There wasn’t any orange scarves, though.
The black one, strewn with gold beads and gold coins, came home with me tonight.
. . .
x
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