Every once in awhile I get a stirring in my soul that can only be quenched by a trip to the dance floor. Two weekends ago, I reached into the back of my bottom dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of fishnet stockings and my black, high-heeled boots. I squeezed into my Killers' t-shirt and threw on a flirty, little black skirt. After dousing myself in glitter from head to toe, I was ready to leap onto the illuminated white tiles of my favorite club.
While I've noticed that most people require a substantial amount of alcohol before they can lose their inhibitions enough to dance in front of a crowd, I am not burdened by such limitations. Without a hint of intoxication, I'm able to throw my hands in the air and let my body intuitively flow to the thumping rhythm of the music. A few hours of this undulating workout inevitably cleanses my spirit and fills me with gratification. A five dollar cover charge is a small price to pay for such a voluptuous experience.
Two weeks ago, at the end of my dancing foray, a polite, young gentleman approached me and simply said: "That outfit you're wearing is perfection." He circled his fingers and brought them up to his lips and made one of those carefree Italian kissing gestures. He said: "Tell the man that you are going home to tonight that he is very, very lucky" and then he walked away. In less than a minute, this complete stranger restored my swagger and reminded me exactly why I go dancing . . . so I can feel alive and vibrant.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
No More "Guilty" Pleasures
What is it with Americans that we associate all pleasurable things with "guilt"? As a sort of misguided tribute to the puritanical foundations of our country, we insist on referring to enjoyable things as our "guilty little pleasures." You don't see the French admonishing themselves for indulging in sumptuous treats. They drink wine, eat full fat cheese, and never shy away from dumping gobs of heavy cream into their cooking. They fry potatoes in duck fat, for crying out loud!
I'm not advocating that we all embrace a hedonistic lifestyle, but I don't think it would kill us to lighten up a bit. As a first step in learning to approach pleasure with a proper amount of insouciance, I encourage all of you to try one of the most amazing chocolate bars that I have ever eaten. Green & Black's 70% Dark Chocolate Bar is a velvety smooth indulgence, which is unsullied by fruit or nuts. Every bite begins with a full-bodied, bold bitterness that gives way to a creamy, satisfyingly smooth finish. This is pure, unadulterated chocolate at its very best. And for those of you who still feel compelled to reprove yourselves for even considering such a luxury, I will assure you that you shouldn't feel too guilty. The small bar is only 190 calories, is allegedly packed with anti-oxidants, and is an absolute steal at $1.99. Where else can you find total contentment for under 2 bucks? I, for one, devoured my bar today without a single moment of shame.
I'm not advocating that we all embrace a hedonistic lifestyle, but I don't think it would kill us to lighten up a bit. As a first step in learning to approach pleasure with a proper amount of insouciance, I encourage all of you to try one of the most amazing chocolate bars that I have ever eaten. Green & Black's 70% Dark Chocolate Bar is a velvety smooth indulgence, which is unsullied by fruit or nuts. Every bite begins with a full-bodied, bold bitterness that gives way to a creamy, satisfyingly smooth finish. This is pure, unadulterated chocolate at its very best. And for those of you who still feel compelled to reprove yourselves for even considering such a luxury, I will assure you that you shouldn't feel too guilty. The small bar is only 190 calories, is allegedly packed with anti-oxidants, and is an absolute steal at $1.99. Where else can you find total contentment for under 2 bucks? I, for one, devoured my bar today without a single moment of shame.
Monday, October 11, 2010
The Smokin' Pirate's Rendezvous
It's that time of year when my palms get sweaty and my heart starts racing. It's time once again for the Smokin' Pirate's rendezvous. I wish I were talking about an encounter with a lightly bearded Orlando Bloom look-a-like on a tropical island . . . but I'm not. The Smokin' Pirate? He's my son. And the rendezvous? That's what most of you would call a parent/teacher conference. My renaming is a futile attempt to inject a bit of humor into a somewhat painful process. I'm sure there are parents who salivate at the mere mention of this meeting and who eagerly look forward to hearing just how wonderfully little Susie is blossoming in the classroom. But for me? Well, let's just say the meeting usually presents a challenge.
My son attends a fairly traditional, small catholic school. Last year, when the school held its annual curriculum night, I waltzed into his second grade classroom hoping that somehow he had learned to blend in. The teacher had prepared the classroom for the night and had carefully hung a row of self-portraits over the blackboard at the back of the room. There was an unusually large number of girls in the class, so most of the portraits featured pigtails and brightly colored rainbows. All of the girls were smiling in their pictures and they occasionally threw in some flowers or a fanciful unicorn. As my eyes meandered down this line of genial portraits, I eventually came to a bandanna clad figure with jagged teeth and beady little eyes. I instinctively started my internal pleading: "Oh please God, no. It isn't . . . ." But, oh yes . . . it was. The portrait of a pirate was my own child's handiwork. And there was more. As I examined the rough looking figure that my son had drawn, I couldn't help but notice the slender rolled tube that was protruding from the pirate's mouth. Green smoke billowed up from the tube and encircled the pirate's head at the top of the page. Sure enough . . . for his second grade self-portrait . . . my son had created a smokin' pirate.
Please don't think that I'm suggesting that my third grader is already a prepubescent juvenile delinquent. He's not . . . yet . . . and I still harbor hope that he never will be. What is undebatable however, is the fact that he is certainly not your average 8 year old. On the same night that I cringed at the Smokin' Pirate's portrait, I was asked to peruse a book that the class had put together for the special night. The book was called "A House Is a Home." The students were supposed to create statements that were analogous to "a house is a home for a family." As I started flipping through the book, I once again was treated to a plethora of unicorns and rainbows. One of the girls drew a picture of a doghouse with a peppy looking puppy and the neatly printed words: "A doghouse is a home for my puppy." One drew a picture of a friendly horse with the immaculately written caption: "A barn is a home for a horse." Another student drew a picture of a cuddly tiger-stripped cat and wrote that "a pet carrier is a home for my kitty." As I flipped further through the brightly colored pages, I eventually came to a picture of a clock that was drawn entirely in pencil. Scrawled across the page, in what amounted to no more than chicken scratches, were the words: "A clock is a house for time." Yup, you guessed it; it was penned by none other than the Smokin' Pirate. I thought to myself . . . okay, that is fairly profound; I guess there's hope.
So this week when I meet with the Smokin' Pirate's teacher, I am clinging to the belief that creativity will triumph in the end. At least I can guarantee that the conference won't be boring.
My son attends a fairly traditional, small catholic school. Last year, when the school held its annual curriculum night, I waltzed into his second grade classroom hoping that somehow he had learned to blend in. The teacher had prepared the classroom for the night and had carefully hung a row of self-portraits over the blackboard at the back of the room. There was an unusually large number of girls in the class, so most of the portraits featured pigtails and brightly colored rainbows. All of the girls were smiling in their pictures and they occasionally threw in some flowers or a fanciful unicorn. As my eyes meandered down this line of genial portraits, I eventually came to a bandanna clad figure with jagged teeth and beady little eyes. I instinctively started my internal pleading: "Oh please God, no. It isn't . . . ." But, oh yes . . . it was. The portrait of a pirate was my own child's handiwork. And there was more. As I examined the rough looking figure that my son had drawn, I couldn't help but notice the slender rolled tube that was protruding from the pirate's mouth. Green smoke billowed up from the tube and encircled the pirate's head at the top of the page. Sure enough . . . for his second grade self-portrait . . . my son had created a smokin' pirate.
Please don't think that I'm suggesting that my third grader is already a prepubescent juvenile delinquent. He's not . . . yet . . . and I still harbor hope that he never will be. What is undebatable however, is the fact that he is certainly not your average 8 year old. On the same night that I cringed at the Smokin' Pirate's portrait, I was asked to peruse a book that the class had put together for the special night. The book was called "A House Is a Home." The students were supposed to create statements that were analogous to "a house is a home for a family." As I started flipping through the book, I once again was treated to a plethora of unicorns and rainbows. One of the girls drew a picture of a doghouse with a peppy looking puppy and the neatly printed words: "A doghouse is a home for my puppy." One drew a picture of a friendly horse with the immaculately written caption: "A barn is a home for a horse." Another student drew a picture of a cuddly tiger-stripped cat and wrote that "a pet carrier is a home for my kitty." As I flipped further through the brightly colored pages, I eventually came to a picture of a clock that was drawn entirely in pencil. Scrawled across the page, in what amounted to no more than chicken scratches, were the words: "A clock is a house for time." Yup, you guessed it; it was penned by none other than the Smokin' Pirate. I thought to myself . . . okay, that is fairly profound; I guess there's hope.
So this week when I meet with the Smokin' Pirate's teacher, I am clinging to the belief that creativity will triumph in the end. At least I can guarantee that the conference won't be boring.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Why Rihanna Needs to Get a Girlfriend
I was out on my long run today listening to Rihanna's new song, the "Only Girl in the World." I love its relentless, infectious beat and Rihanna's sassy vocals. I have repeatedly turned this tune up and danced around my living room like a madwoman. There's no question that Rihanna is extraordinarily talented, but as I started to focus on the words, I begin to wonder just what is wrong with Rihanna. We all know that her haunting vocals on Eminem's song probably reflect more than just an artistic statement. Here is a woman who has been battered in the past singing about how she doesn't mind being abused because she "like[s] the way it hurts" and "love[s] the way [her abuser] lies." And now she is pleading with a lover to treat her like she is "the only girl in the world." While these lyrics might only be a form of artistic expression, my hunch is that they mirror Rihanna's own personal search for love and attention.
As a woman, I can certainly understand how amazing it feels when another person gives you all of their attention and treats you like you are the only thing that matters in the world. Obsessive, all-encompassing love is passionate and fun, but it is far from healthy. I don't want to be in a relationship with someone who literally treats me like I am the only thing that matters in the world. As I really started to think about what Rihanna was asking for, I realized that being "the only girl in the world" would be a frightening proposition.
One of the biggest sources of love and fulfillment in my life is the amazing group of women that I am honored to call my friends. They are strong, capable people who are all very different and have unique talents and passions. One of my friends is a powerful triathlete who has a crusty exterior but an inner heart of gold; she generously devotes an enormous amount of her life to helping dysfunctional families on a volunteer basis. Another friend is a passionate artist who has amazed me not only with the beauty of her paintings and jewelry, but with the beauty of her own soul. She is a fiery woman who is not afraid to dance with me in front of a crowd and never shies away from a challenge. Another friend is an intelligent, successful businesswoman who constantly enters into complicated political and philosophical debates with me, but still enjoys dancing, belting out tunes in front of an audience, and scanning sales racks for the latest fashionable clothes. Yet another friend is a social media genius who I am convinced will not stop networking until she has connected herself to every person on the planet. And then there is the beautiful singer with flowing long hair, who literally makes her friends break out in goosebumps whenever she graces us with a song. These are just examples, but all of the women that I count as my friends have several things in common. They are confident, self-assured women who know who they are and are not afraid to be themselves. They have discovered their talents and nurtured them. They are truly beautiful people and I feel privileged to have them in my life. Time with them nourishes my soul and makes me a stronger, healthier person. I look forward to many more years of laughing until we cry, dancing defiantly with people half our age, and singing at the top of our lungs. At the beginning of breast cancer awareness month, I am deeply grateful that I am not the only girl in the world.
As a woman, I can certainly understand how amazing it feels when another person gives you all of their attention and treats you like you are the only thing that matters in the world. Obsessive, all-encompassing love is passionate and fun, but it is far from healthy. I don't want to be in a relationship with someone who literally treats me like I am the only thing that matters in the world. As I really started to think about what Rihanna was asking for, I realized that being "the only girl in the world" would be a frightening proposition.
One of the biggest sources of love and fulfillment in my life is the amazing group of women that I am honored to call my friends. They are strong, capable people who are all very different and have unique talents and passions. One of my friends is a powerful triathlete who has a crusty exterior but an inner heart of gold; she generously devotes an enormous amount of her life to helping dysfunctional families on a volunteer basis. Another friend is a passionate artist who has amazed me not only with the beauty of her paintings and jewelry, but with the beauty of her own soul. She is a fiery woman who is not afraid to dance with me in front of a crowd and never shies away from a challenge. Another friend is an intelligent, successful businesswoman who constantly enters into complicated political and philosophical debates with me, but still enjoys dancing, belting out tunes in front of an audience, and scanning sales racks for the latest fashionable clothes. Yet another friend is a social media genius who I am convinced will not stop networking until she has connected herself to every person on the planet. And then there is the beautiful singer with flowing long hair, who literally makes her friends break out in goosebumps whenever she graces us with a song. These are just examples, but all of the women that I count as my friends have several things in common. They are confident, self-assured women who know who they are and are not afraid to be themselves. They have discovered their talents and nurtured them. They are truly beautiful people and I feel privileged to have them in my life. Time with them nourishes my soul and makes me a stronger, healthier person. I look forward to many more years of laughing until we cry, dancing defiantly with people half our age, and singing at the top of our lungs. At the beginning of breast cancer awareness month, I am deeply grateful that I am not the only girl in the world.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)