Demystifying the Dance Floor

 

Ok, friends, I haven't posted a dance blog for months.  I try to hold off because I know sometimes I come across a little strong?… passionately enthused? boisterously bliss-filled? when it comes to dance stuff.  I think dance is close to one of the best things ever invented, but I know lots of people don't feel that way.  I get it.  Dance can be scary for plenty of reasons.  I'm going to address some of these and hopefully give you a little more confidence the next time you hit the hardwood.

These tips will keep you on your toes… and off everyone else's.

 

Problem: You have no idea what you're doing (choreography)

Dudes: Don't let it deter you.  At a lot of dance places there's a lesson before free dance starts.  If you missed the lesson, just ask someone who looks like they know what they're doing.  It's a win/win/win - that person feels cool because they're showing you their moves/your dance partner's impressed you want to learn/ you learn a new move!  

Ladies: Follow as well as you can.  If a guy's worth his salt, he'll be polite and not give you a hard time.

Problem: You have no idea what you're doing (dance etiquette)

Dudes: If you follow these instructions, it is not unlikely that you'll have girls talking about you behind your back (in the best way).

1. Don't be a creepstar.  The quickest way for me to explain this is give a girl some space.  Unless you're married to her, engaged to her or dating her, don't dance like a PBJ sandwich stuck together.  It's weird, and we don't like it. 

2. Ask us our name at the beginning and thank us for the dance at the end.  Simple. 

3. Take our hand and lead us on and off the dance floor. 

4. Don't ask us to dance 3 songs in a row (unless the whole married/engaged/dating thing applies).  Give us a break and come back after half an hour or so if you really want to.

5. Pay attention to steering.  It's your job to not ram us into people, so pay attention to where you're going. 

6. Take breaks for a few basics steps between combos.  It's fine if you're a pro, but sometimes we get dizzy spinning our craniums into muddled confusion. 

Ladies: I don't really know if guys will talk about you (do guys talk to each other?) if you do these things, but I know they'll appreciate them.

1. Don't turn them down unless you have a darn good reason.  It took them a lot of courage to ask you, so unless your ankle is broken or he's a total creepstar, dance with the guy.

2. Laugh it off if he makes mistakes, be gracious.

3. If he's the best twirler/leader/dipper you've ever danced with, tell him.  Be a life giver with your words.

4. Let him lead.  Relax.  Chill out.  Have fun.

5. Wear clothes that make sense for dancing.

Problem: Dancing is dangerous

Dudes:  If you're trying a lift/aerial for the first time, think first - what's the floor made of?  Do I need someone to spot just in case?  Is this girl capable of doing this lift? 

If you drop a girl, it's probably not the end of the world.  Make sure she's all right.  Do what you need to do as far as common sense - 911, don't move her, get her a glass of water - depending on how hard she fell.  Your job is to do the move as accurately and safely as you can, but it's not all your fault if you drop her.  At that level of dancing, she knew what she was getting herself into.

Ladies: If you dance for a while, you're likely to get dropped at least once.  I can probably count on one hand the times I've been dropped.  Just remember, the guys feel terrible, and you might bruise.  The moral of the story is, if you don't feel comfortable doing a move, don't do it, or at least make sure you're on a forgiving surface with a spotter and you're dancing with a knowledgeable guy.

Problem: Getting from the wallflower wasteland to the dance floor

Dudes: This is your job.  I feel more strongly about this than most normal people, but you can ask most of my dance friends and they know I vehemently loathe standing on the wall not dancing.  I don't usually ask guys to dance, but I will now and then.  I know that it takes a lot of guts to ask a girl to dance, so bravo to you.  Here's a little tip - girls will almost always say yes, so remember you're walking into a situation in which you will most likely be successful.  What to say?  If you feel comfortable being clever or funny, that's fine, but a standard "Would you like to dance" is always classy and perfectly acceptable. 

Ladies: You have two options - ask or be asked.  I belong to the old school and prefer to be asked to dance, but every now and then I'll ask someone to dance.  If you are waiting to be asked, location and body language are the keys.  Don't be inaccessible - duh.  If you want to dance, stand close to the dance floor.  As for body language, don't look intimidating - crossed arms, hands on hips, wide stance, disappointed-you-aren't-dancing face.  Chill out and stop being terrifying.

In sum - relax and have fun.  I realize that things like dancing get more fun with practice as you figure out what the heck you're doing out there.  There are also people out there who just don't like to dance.  While I can't exactly understand, I can sort of stretch my imagination because there are things I don't like - olives being the prime example.

Summer love to you, unless you live in Australia,

Little Miss Sunshine

How to Earn Love

Really, what I want is to be loved.  I want to be pursued and chased and valued.  I want to get that poprocks-in-your-stomach kind of feeling.  I want to be wanted.  (Thanks, Hunter Hayes.)  I want someone to want to know what makes me tick. 

So here's the plan.

I'm just sort of working it out, so I'm open to suggestions.  I've got the grown up job, so that's good.  It might be even better that it's working with kids in a change the world/impact the next generation way.  I think that's extra points.  I'm at church almost every week.  I just got promoted to foyer hostess on the hospitality committee.  Last week at our college/career gathering, I met 12 new people.  Surely helping lead that small group is helping make my case.  I mean, what else could God want?  I put my dishes in the dishwasher.  I'm not out kicking children or committing fraud.  Maybe it's enough to be loved.

Of course, that's all rubbish. 

Never ever ever ever will you ever catch God saying "I will love you if _____________".  And yet… somehow… I get the idea that He will love me if.  If I kick the habit. If I volunteer.  If I go to church.  If I don't drink, smoke, cuss, or chew.  If I don't - you finish the sentence.  I treat love as if it's a paycheck.  If I do this for You, God, then You will owe me love.  I treat love as if it's a prenuptial agreement.  You will love me unless I _______, and then it's back to square one and I'm left with nothing.  But that's my idea of love.  I try to make love fair. 

God's love is never fair. 

(Right after the golden calf fiasco) Behold, to the LORD you God belong heaven and the heaven of heavens, the earth with all that is in it.  Yet the LORD set His heart in love on your fathers and chose their offspring after them, you above all peoples, as you are this day. Deuteronomy 10:14-15 (emphasis mine)

But you, O Lord, are a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness. Psalm 86:15

For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life.  For God did not send His Son in to the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through Him. John 3:16-17

But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ… so that in the coming ages He might show the immeasurable riches of His grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. Ephesians 2:4-7

God's love is not a paycheck.  It is not a transaction.  It would not add up, reconcile in a checkbook register, or be approved if it were a bank loan.  I cannot out run it, out smart it, or out sin it.  I got it when I didn't deserve it, so what in the big wide world makes me think I need to earn it now?  

The light dawns and the lie becomes clear.  Love is a gift, and it has always been.  Love is the richest, fullest, brightest gift, and God's is unending.

Suddenly that rush of realization about God's love spills over into how I understand human love.  So we must be careful.  The strychnine in the well poisons not only the well, but the lemonade in the pitcher and the flowers in the vase and even the cherry jello.  A crooked view of God's love - a view that love is earned or deserved or - perish the thought -  transacted - bleeds into all our other loves. 

Not "maybe if I'm funny and don't ask too much of them and send them cards on their birthdays then my friends will love me".  Quite the other way around.  Because they love me I will be funnier and ask things of them and send them cards in the mail. 

Not "maybe if I take out the trash and keep my room clean and am the biggest fan then my family will love me".  That's quite an upside down approach.  Their love makes me the biggest trash emptier/room cleaner/ fan.

Not "maybe if I look pretty and don't talk too much or just enough and have the sweetest attitude then Mr. Wonderful will love me".  Rubbish.  The love of Mr. Wonderful itself will make me pretty and will bid me talk or not and will encourage an attitude of sweetness.

That's the power of love.  It transforms things.  Love turns scars into stories of grace.  It makes peace out of conflict and action out of apathy.  It brings light to darkness and hope to despair.  

Love is a costly gift, but the greatest one.

Little Miss Sunshine

Identity Crisis

When people ask me who I am, I like to have a kind of go-to list of things to pull from.  I'm a teacher, so I belong to that office supply/bookish/lamination-loving group of people called teachers.  I'm a first-born, so I give myself permission to be a little more bossy and fine with being in charge than the average human.  I'm an athlete, so I can identify when other athletes talk about hitting a wall or pulling a quad.  Of course, there's plenty of room for improvement- I wouldn't mind adding "successful gardener" or "avid language learner" to my list of identifiers, but I like to have a few things on hand for easy access. 

There are few questions whose answers can reveal more about a person than

Who/what are you

and

Who is God

The way you answer those questions gives away what you think is important.  If you [Heaven forbid] say "I'm a brunette" or "I'm a waitress", it is immediately apparent the things you find most important are your hair and your job.  (It wouldn't make any difference, by the way, if you said "I'm the blonde by which all other blondes are measured" or "I'm the Surgeon General".) 

But that's what you do, not who you are.  If Ronald Reagan and Channing Tatum are both in the movie business, does that make them the same person?  Consequently, if you are suddenly unable to make that sandwich or perform that surgery, what does that make you?  A nothing?  Now you're identity-less?  That might sound a little dramatic, but what if your identity is being supermom and your kids grow up and move out?  What if you're all about being that awesome husband or wife and the unthinkable happens and you lose that person?

I have two grandmas with severe memory loss.  In their day, they were matriarchs.  They were the ones planning menus for family reunions, never forgetting to send cards for birthdays and anniversaries.  Do they do the same things they always have?  No, but we didn't take away their names and fingerprints just because they can't do the things they used to do.

What about the stuff you have?  I know all you hipster antimaterialism-ists would raise a defensive ruckus saying you aren't attached to your stuff/you shop at thrift stores/music and art are so much more important than Fossil watches, etc. etc.  Great, not everyone is attached to buying brand names.  But don't you feel good when you get over 20 likes on Instagram?  Are you aiming at having 1,000 followers on Pinterest?  Things you have aren't always smaller than a breadbox.  Sometimes they're the size of a reputation or a Twitter feed. 

I haven't mentioned the second question.  Who is God?  What if your answer to that question shed some light on the first question?  Let's posit that there is a God who is all powerful, perfect - you know, all the stuff you have to be to qualify to be God.  Let's also posit that He created everything.  Even if we stopped right there, that helps us with our first question.  It says, "I am not an accident; I am an 'on purpose'".  If you are an 'on-purpose', it would make sense that you have some sort of purpose. 

Who and what and why you are now becomes dependent on something, rather a Someone outside yourself.  This isn't just any someone like Taylor Swift or Napoleon, as great as they are in their own right.  This is an all great, all good God.  Apart from just existing (which would be enough), and creating you (that's a bonus) this great, good God took your record of messy lies, failure, anger, depression, ungratefulness and put that on Jesus so that you could have His clean record.  Not a fair trade, to say the least.  You don't even have to live with an identity of your own record anymore.  You might have to live with a few of the consequences, of course, but it doesn't own you.

But can you deal with that?  Can you unclench those hands hanging onto your rather forgettable identity and cling to the identity you're being handed?  Can you bear to cling to grace - something you didn't manufacture or build with your own two hands?  Something that could even be termed as a -gasp- handout?  Let me tell you from personal experience, it's to your advantage to let go of finding your identity in being a scholar/athlete/multitasker/artist/lemur whisperer.  You will lose games, get an 89.4, drop the spinning plates, choose the wrong color and miscommunicate with the monkey - or you'll forever live in fear of doing so.  Someone unchangeable, unshakeable and wholly sufficient is where you want to hang your identity. 

When you do that, who you are no longer tries to lean on what you have or what you do.  Your identity is now safe from, well, you.

Love you,

Little Miss Sunshine

4 Weddings in 4 Weekends, #4. Katie and Mark

The title of grand finale wedding in the four weekends four weddings tour goes to Katie and Mark.  I didn't plan it this way, but it's fitting because Katie holds a degree in Theater.  Thanks for that, Katie.  The week in between Audrey & Jordan and Katie & Mark, I got to hang out with my friends Hannah and Sam.  We crafted, watched Elementary, and did a little bargain hunting.  (Plato's Closet!)  (Hannah was my roommate in my senior year of college, and I was around when she in Sam were falling deeply, madly, truly in love.)

On our way to the rehearsal dinner, we were trying to guess what the menu would be.  The venue was a country club nestled in suburban Richardson.  I guessed we'd be eating country club chicken or salmon with the standard mixed vegetables and bread.  Sam was quick to say he wished they'd just serve BBQ instead.  Lo and behold, we walked in to great steaming dishes of brisket!  Hallelujah, no chicken breast and green beans!  I didn't make it to the food for a while because I was too socially distracted catching up with all our college friends that I hadn't seen in a while. 

The day of the wedding, I hung out with Sarah & Alex, who had driven up early from Houston.  We got ready together at The Heights Chapel before the ceremony.  The Chapel was the perfect Southern city wedding venue.  The tall wooden ceilings arched to form a peak, and the focal point were the quartet of stained glass windows at the front.  The ring bearer - the groom's nephew (who had just learned to walk a month before the wedding) made it down the long aisle without mishap and almost stole the show. 

The nine bridesmaids, dressed in punchy pink satin, and carrying a mix of hydrangeas, daisies and baby roses stood in couples with the nine groomsmen at the altar.  Katie, escorted by her brother, glowed in a sparkling strapless dress and classic scalloped lace veil.  During this part of the ceremony I like to watch the groom's face taking in his beautiful bride.  Mark, in his usual steady, quiet way, smiled and couldn't take his eyes off of her. 

 

The service was performed by one of our Bible professors from college, and the text was taken from a letter Katie's dad had written to her as a little girl.  You would have been hard pressed to find a dry eye.  After that, the bridal party prayed over them.  Watching my dear friends exchange vows, it felt surreal, these were my friends Mark and Katie!  Now they were suddenly grown up and married.  They recessed in a cloud of bliss amid decorous whoops and hollers from their friends.

From the Chapel, we drove to the reception, a ballroom with a sweeping staircase tucked away inconspicuously in Carollton.  Continuing the theme of serving unconventionally flavorful food, Mark and Katie treated us to a fajita bar and Southern sweet tea.  A DJ kept the dance floor teeming by mixing retro and current hits.  We wore ourselves out between feather-boa-swathed stints in the photo booth and kicking it on the dance floor.  (Have you ever tried doing the Wobble in 5 inch heels?)

We saw them off in a shower of cheers and white rose petals.  They took off for island paradise the next day on their Hawaiian honeymoon.  By now they're settling into their new Dallas digs and unwrapping towers of eggshell/ecru/champagne - white wrapped wedding presents. 

After wedding #4, I stayed with my friend Liz for a few days.  Her couch is fantastic.  She's off for the summer before starting her doctorate in English at SMU in the fall.  We watched Cool Hand Luke, slept in, went shopping and I got to sit in on this sermon at the Village while Liz worked in the nursery.  Liz is one of those slightly scary people that I love having in my life because she knows me so well.  We can talk about anything, and she can always tell when I'm not giving her the full story.  We even sipped sweet somethings through straws while we increased the melanin levels in our epidermis… ok, we drank soda and laid by the pool.  It was a great way to end the trip. 

I would tell you that I flew home and started crafting for my classroom next year, but that would be a lie.  I got in at midnight Wednesday night, got up at 6:30 Thursday, unpacked, did three loads of laundry, repacked and was back on the road by 1 for Jarrett's volleyball tournament in California.  

C'est la vie, and it's a good one.

Little Miss Sunshine

4 Weddings in 4 Weekends, #3. Audrey and Jordan

I'm not going to lie.  This post is going to be a difficult one to write, not because I'm lacking material or because I don't know the wedding party very well, but because the groom is my brother.  I fear it's going to be not unlike writing about one's own hand.  I mean, what is there to say about my hand?  Right now it's sporting this Essie peachy/pink polish and it has five fingers.  But then there's the way it conducts the music I'm listening to while I run, or the time it made Thanksgiving dinner in Australia or got burned this morning on the tea kettle.  At once, I have everything significant to say and have been struck inarticulate by plunging crevasse of detail.  Similarly, this post will either be boring and short or rich and long, well, I hope if it's long that it's rich.  If it's long and boring, you should go do something else. 

For the sake of linear chronology, I'll start with the adorable picnic themed rehearsal dinner my mother dear threw.  Aunt D, Uncle T, Aunt S, Gma and Papa were in town early, so they helped us set up in the tiny church sanctuary.  I put myself in charge of centerpieces, as I was being entirely un-helpful in deciding whether the tables should be in a horse shoe, rows, or the shape of a Christmas snowflake.  Somehow I find cutting diagonals on daisy stems therapeutic.  All the tables got arranged, red gingham was everywhere, and the daisies found their way into the Mason jars at the appropriate height.

That night, we practiced not tripping on the steps, processing and recessing in the correct order, and Noah James ran through the music.  Afterwards we dined on BBQ and sipped our sweet tea.  Then it was time for the speeches.  My younger younger brother, Jarrett, was the best man, so he went first.  He'd been telling me for weeks that he was just going to tell a funny story and keep it light.  Turns out, the only shred of truth in that was he told a story.  Oh, it was a nice story. He talked all about how he knew Audrey was the girl for Jordan when she got up one morning to watch he and Jarrett play sand volleyball at 4:30AM.  Solid choice, great for the occasion.  The trouble was, as he was talking, he paused, so I looked up, thinking he'd lost his place in his notes.  Nope, that 6'1" emotional rock of a brother of mine was tearing up talking about his brother getting married.  

I'm not going to describe my crying face at this point, one, because I wasn't looking at it, and two, because it wasn't a graceful cry.  After that, I kept up the ungraceful cry as Audrey's sister, Katherine, spoke as the maid of honor about what an amazing example her sister has been to her all these years.  I was a puddle of saltwater and mascara.  

Somehow we made it out the other side of dinner without too much tear-loss-induced dehydration.  That night, all the girls stayed at the reception venue, which also happened to be a sprawling Southern bed and breakfast.  The bachelorette party got a little wild, OK, we ate Oreos and drank sparkling cider.  The next morning we feasted on cinnamon cake, quiche, fruit, and coffee.  

The weather was far from cooperative, which we'd anticipated from the forecast.  I made two trips to Walmart for umbrellas, and almost drowned in the process- but that's inconsequential.  We went from wet to pretty over the course of a few hours thanks to Mary and Kate who were on hand for hair and makeup.  Our dresses were sea glass blue/green with a hint of grey, one shoulder, ruched at the natural waist and flowing barely past the knee.  The groomsmen wore grey vests and black ties over white button up shirts.  

The wedding venue was the university chapel - classically, beautifully Southern architecture marked by towering white pillars and red brick.  The pews were decked with daisy bouquets, Audrey's favorite flower. Clusters of creamy white pillar candles stood in the window sills.  When the time came for us to make our way down the aisle, we pep talked each other about how slowly to walk and where to hold our bouquets.  

Suddenly, we were all down front, and my little brother was saying his vows, the same ones we've been saying for hundreds of years.  Lots more happy proud big sister crying.  Suddenly Audrey was saying "I do" and they were exchanging rings.  Then it was "you may kiss your bride" and "may I present" and then it was over.  All those months of emails and details and planning and showers were over.  It was a wistful happy.  Emotions tend to be like that.  They aren't pure.  They're all thrown together like a cafeteria casserole, not that I really had time to analogize emotions and casseroles... 

We took a few family photos and piled into cars to make our way to the sprawling Southern B&B.  The wooden floors and ceilings glowed a red amber, there were daisies everywhere, and lots of people talking and laughing.  It was like the best kind of summer dinner party.  I don't think people usually throw garters and bouquets at summer dinner parties, but we did that too.  The cake was the pinnacle of buttercream-y-ness.  

It had all the basics of a great wedding, minus the torrential downpour, but beyond having a great structural event skeleton, the very heartbeat of Jordan and Audrey's wedding was beautiful.  I'm so glad to have a sister-in-law, and so glad they won't be living very far away.  

And they will live happily ever after.

Much love,

Little Miss Sunshine