Just for ha-has, let’s talk about my past shall we?
I know it is not very riveting but I am in the mood to reminisce about the old me. There is nothing too wrong with the new me but I miss young brickhousechick and her spunk.
I would like to focus mostly on the end of my high school years, college and several years after that.
I never joined a sport’s team in high school, not because I was not athletically fit but because I was shy (I know, can you believe it?) I did join the cheerleading squad but kept a very low profile.
I was not a bad athlete, if I may say so myself. My long legs helped me run distances during Gym class and beat the other students. I played flag football with the neighborhood kids, played wiffle ball and could actually hit the ball. I was often the last man standing during dodgeball (which explained the huge red welts on my thighs when I was finally bombarded) and I killed it in kickball. I simply lacked the confidence to try out for any organized sport.
I took Jazz classes at 8:00 am while in college and was the Queen of my Jazzercize class in my mid 20’s, but that was nothing compared to how good I was (I know I am
not shamefully shamefully bragging) at mastering my passion.
Please allow me to modestly tell you how f***** awesome I was at:
I’m talking getting THIS kind of reaction – when I danced:
Or Dancing With The Stars- kind of dancing.
Or belly dancing.
Or ballet *yawning*.
I am talking, FUNKY dancing, people!
SOOUUUUUUL TRAIN dancing.
Everywhere I went = I danced.
My high school superlative was, Most Likely To Be Dancing.
My father nicknamed me, Footloose after seeing me appear on the 11:00 o’clock news dancing at a Boston club.
I danced in the streets.
In my room.
Man, did I have the moves.
Then, one day this happened:
My joints began aching. Every inch of my body hurt – including my hair. I spent all my time going from doctor to doctor. I had surgeries. I rested in bed. I rested in bed again. And again.
I had to stop working because I felt like this every day:
When they discovered cervical deterioration of my spine, I tried dancing but looked something like this:
But that hurt.
After crying, screaming, yelling, kicking and feeling sorry for myself, I, being the eternal optimist that I am (don’t ask me why), decided that Rheumatoid Arthritis was not going to stop me from doing what I love.
I dance when I can and even when I can’t.
If my feet hurt, I move my arms. If my arms hurt, I move my feet. If my hips hurt, I shake my head. If my head hurts…I still dance.
KEEP ON DANCING!