flamenco brutality

I did in fact make it to two dance classes yesterday, as I'd hoped. I don't often make it to flamenco--it starts at six, and I'm usually still frantically writing, trying to make my deadline--but now that I have been to Writer Boot Camp I am really trying to be more disciplined and get my stuff done in time.

Two weeks in a row now! Really, I'm just trying to lull my editor into a false sense of security. But I digress.

This was the fourth flamenco class I'd taken, ever. It's insanely difficult for me because I'm hung up about getting footwork, but there are little mental tricks I can start doing on myself to convince myself otherwise. And since this isn't my primary form, it doesn't matter so much whether I "get" it or not, or whether I look like I'm getting it to my teacher/troupe leader. There is more of a play aspect. I know, things would be emotionally easier if I felt that way about my bellydance classes too, but right now I'm really focussed on technical aspects, and belly is work.

Whereas in flamenco, I get to make a lot of noise with my feet! And there's jumping!

We worked on a sequence where you kind of jump so that your legs are shoulders-width apart (which is really weird, after so many months of keeping my knees close together for belly), clap your hands together, and then slap out a pattern on your thighs. Then there's a kick, and some stomping around, and another thing I can't begin to describe because I wasn't understanding it at all last night. So I focussed on swishing my skirt, and looking haughty and passionate. Yep. Yep. That's me, the disdainful gypsy. Perhaps I will allow you to kiss the dirt upon which I dance. Jump, clap, slapslapslapslap, stomp around. Jump, clap, slapslapslapslap, stomp around. Haughty, haughty. Passionate, passionate. Swish, swish.

Woke up this morning to discover that my upper thighs are specked with little purple bruises.

Ahem. Maybe not quite so haughty the next time.