Tag Archives: Dancing

Inside I’m Dancing

Once upon a twenties, there was a girl who loved nothing more than dancing and sweating whilst dancing and grinding and say then day that particular movement was dancing. Said girl’s only aerobic exercise for a long while, was the dancing. The pleasure she would get from the shuffle to a deep base would be evident when her hands would creep up over her shoulders. She was no ballerina. She did not have the elegance of a ballerina. Her dancing usually was reserved to prancing around her bedroom in her pants or it was directed towards a DJ booth. She had rhythm. Unsightly rhythm.

Said girl no longer dances. Not really. She has lost her rhythm. Her movement is restricted to a wobbly shuffle that she calls walking and that only occurs because she is heavily medicated. Her government has assessed her and deemed that she should only walk 200 yards at a time, thus pulsating her radiotherapy experienced hip really is out of the question. If she did not find twerking distasteful, the cement in her spine would still be a reason enough not to do it. Her arms are similarly weak and as sometimes these limbs cannot be raised above her shoulders, the distinction for her between walking and dancing, she felt, would be slight.

People adapt obviously, and our heroine has become partial to some private bed dancing, which is much cleaner than it sounds. It involves lying flat on a mattress, a bed really because she would struggle to get down on a mattress, and then wriggling her feet and hands. The activity usually takes place when the lady in question is intoxicated and attempting to recreate the euphoria of yesteryear whilst proudly listening to Katy Perry’s Fireworks. For her, this activity is still rare.

Rarer still is any form of publicly busting a move. Walking with a stick in hand is embarrassing enough for her as a 29 year old experiencing London nightlife, but dancing, her new ‘dancing’ would be impossible. Living in her brittle shell makes it difficult for her to experience London nightlife, so she would be unlikely to open herself up to the danger of being pushed and prodded on a crowded and slippery dance floor, when she is already having to manage the increased danger from the public that emerges through alcohol. There would be murder on the dance floor.

The loss was felt, until one day, after a few sherbets, in a room protected by her dear friends, she danced. For ten minutes before having to sit. She did not grind and she did not twerk, nor did she throw her hands in the air like she did not care. Importantly, she did not want to stand on the sidelines feeling self conscious and grieving. Deprived of obstacles, armed with her stick for back support, she moved from left to right to the sound of a beat. There was some backwards shuffling and even some sort of movement with other people. With stick in hand she moved from side to side. And she smiled.

Nobody bashed her and nobody drunkenly grabbed her neck and pulled it down because they were a moron, and nobody attempted to twirl her. She moved and she adapted.

It hurt her like hell the next day though, but if anybody were to ask her, she would have said that it was worth it.

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Just Dance

Picture the scene. You have not seen many people for a while and this is difficult because you constantly seek and need acceptance, attention and love to validate your existence. Your body is weak following weeks of doing very little. You have lytic lesions and as a result, have lost your rhythm. You are bald and obese and female. Your six year old niece hands you a remote control having just found ‘Jailhouse Rock’ on ‘Just Dance 4’. She says it is the song for you because 18 months ago you did a silly dance in the car to ‘All Shook Up’, and since then has decided that Elvis Presley is your favourite singer in the whole wild world. She says dance. You become anxious.

What do you do?

What do you do?

Throw sense out of the window and dance of course. Sod long term damage. You dance with a remote control in your hand. You feel warmth in your stomach as she bursts out laughing and runs to get more people to watch you strut your stuff in front of the television. You become competitive and want to take down the computerised man shaking his hips and right hand on the Wii. You keep ‘dancing’. For four minutes. You experience the most exercise you have experienced for seven weeks. You then have to lie down, such is your capability.

Cut to two days later and what do you get? Pulled muscles. Pulled muscles in your arms. Pulled muscles in your hands. And a stiff neck. Every time you move.

You have been warned. Game consoles are dangerous. They are especially dangerous when one is rebuilding their body after a stem cell transplant, cannot stand for longer than half an hour and gets a sore wrist from using their beloved walking stick due to lack of use.

Personally, you wouldn’t catch me doing it. No way. Not even. No.

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Rhythm

Given what I just witnessed in the mirror, I appear to have lost my rhythm. Have you seen it? I looks like childbearing hips thrusting in time to a dirty beat, but better. So much better.

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