Destination: Movement

I haven't made my list yet. I'm still planning to do so, and I will, but I got a little distracted this past week. My eyes have cleared up, though to my surprise the opthamologist told me at my final appointment today to keep going on the steroid eye drops every other day for another week. I didn't tell him that I finally broke down and wore contact lenses on Saturday night, but I felt so guilty about it I stopped in at my local eyewear place and made an appointment to have a proper eye exam next week. I figure I may as well get a thorough vision and health check before ordering contact lens refills. Hopefully the virus didn't leave any damage in it's wake.

Now that my vision is clear, I have a new affliction. I have succumbed to the dance bug. I'm hooked on dancing again. It started when I took Bambi and Collin out last weekend. It was retro night, the music was great, and I danced all night and loved every second of it. Then an old flame called me on Wednesday night (I'm sure I'll have more to say about him in the future, not to worry - he's harder to kick than pink eye, and re-occurs with equally alarming frequency) suggesting I go out with him and a couple friends to a club. Since I can't say no to Shawn about anything, and even though I had a major meeting at work the next day, I went.

And to my suprise, I had a fantastic time. It could have been the miracle that I actually spent a night out with Shawn that was free of mixed signals, heated exchanges, and other faggoty flora and fauna generally filed under the heading "Drama," but I arrived home with a big shit eating grin on my face and collapsed happily into bed. I woke up feeling great and had no hangover, a feeling I'm not accustomed to having after less than six hours of sleep. I proceeded to have an awesome day at work, and left it that day feeling re-energized and re-acquainted with my fighting spirit. That night, after a dismal failed attempt to pick up a cute French guy at local martini bar, I refused to crawl home in defeat and called my friend Troy and made him dance with me for an hour at another bar. My confidence was a little bruised from the failed pick up, but the dancing made me feel better.

Anyone who knows me knows I love to dance. I'm the one who's always shaking a little booty at a house party, or twirling around the dj booth at full tilt while spinning. For years my friends got annoyed with me because once I hit the dancefloor, there was no getting me off. I've always believed dancing is good for the soul, and still do. But somewhere along the line I stopped doing it with any kind of frequency. For me, that's the equivalent of a religious zealot forgoing church for a couple of years. The Ex, I admit, kind of put me off the clubbing scene for awhile as he, from my perspective, fell into the drug-fuelled Dark Side of the Dancefloor, as place I'm not keen on spending time. This past week reminded me of the good parts I've been missing.

It's hard for me to explain in words what dancing does for me, because it's a feeling. There's just something about getting to that place where you're body is connected to the music so perfectly that it knows exactly what the music is going to do next and responds, even when you've never heard the piece of music before. And I've always found the idea dancing fascinating. It's ridiculous in a way, when you think about it: a bunch of people in a room moving their bodies around to sound. There's no point to it, really. It's movement without a destination. And I love that. For me, it's about getting to that place where your just completely in the moment and everything else falls away. There's no yesterday, no tomorrow, you're totally enmeshed in the now. I suppose it's kind of a Zen thing.

Saturday night for me was the clincher. I was at a birthday party and had instigated a dancefloor area. Two very cute and friendly boys were there who were visiting from Texas, and it was there last night in town. We hit it off, and they said they wanted to go out somewhere as it was their final night in Toronto, so I agreed to take them out and show them a good time. We headed to the club, hit the dancefloor, and it was game over. I felt confident, smart, and sexy. Before long the cute blond Texan and I were making out and doing pretty much everything you can on a crowded dancefloor without taking it out of your pants (which I've witnessed, actually, and I don't think it's really appropriate, although undeniably entertaining). I think the other Texas boy felt a little left out, but it didn't occur to me until the night was over that maybe it should have been more of a dancefloor threesome. But whatever. The chances of me seeing either of them ever again are very very slim, and there's nothing I can do now. I enjoyed myself, and while some may feel such blatant displays in public are wrong, I simply couldn't help it. In my defense, to all those thinking "get a room!" I did whisper in his ear that if he wanted to come home with me for a few hours, to let me know anytime and I would make it happen. Instead, a few hours later they were whisked off in a cab back to the place they were staying, and I went home, alone - but feeling like one satisfied sexy bitch all the same.

Years ago, I declared the dancefloor my church. And now I've rediscovered my faith. It's where I go to feel connected to something bigger than myself, to tap in to some higher energy, to feed my soul, where the music can truly touch me. And where apparently hot boys can, too.

This is one affliction from which I have no problem suffering. In fact, it just permanently made the to-do list.