On a Related Note, I Need New Sneakers

Class Three- sneakers. Surprisingly difficult to dance in; though they offer the support that both soft and hard shoes lack, the friction inhibits both floor movement and footwork. However! My ankle held up. In fact it feels a lot better, all loosened up again. The bruising seems to be on its way out, walking not painful at all.

Funny thing about the hornpipe I couldn't get the timing for... found out class two that it's a jig. So... that was good. Definitely fits the music better now. Any dancer that reads that will understand how funny/foolish it is to think you're learning a hornpipe and then learn it's a jig. So. Oops? But I now technically have learned three jigs; I'm comfortable with the first and the one learned tonight. The second step baffles me for some reason. Just need to drill the footwork... the double bang sequence messes me up but once I have my shoes back on I'll get it eventually.

I felt better picking up the jig we learned tonight, like I wasn't miles behind everyone else but learning at the same pace. Not necessarily indicative of the kind of progress I'd like to make but certainly getting there. There was only one point where I felt I had to stop or get sick. It wasn't a difficult night in terms of drills or stamina but I still left dripping. Like, actually had to bring an extra shirt because the one I was wearing was sopping. Incredibly attractive, I'm sure.

Irish dance is in equal parts a mental and physical game. Overthink a section of a step and you will screw up. You first hear and then feel the right rhythm rather than study the footwork visually alone. Without drilling the moves over and over your body will falter during a step regardless of whether or not you can envision what it should look like; it's all muscle memory. And if you think you're struggling, you are. If you push aside the voice of judgement, clear your mind, and just dance- you will get it.

The dance I remember from childhood is very different. Back then, I didn't question whether or not I could do it. I simply knew I could. And I'd advance in competitions. And then I'd get cocky and need discipline that only my respected teachers could administer- your arms are flying out. your head is moving. get some lift in that jump. And all of it taught me to work, but I never doubted myself. Now, at 23 years old after years of serious health setbacks and the laziness of college life (interrupted by one year of a BADASS return to dance if I do say so myself), self-doubt is my largest obstacle. Fortunately, I am somehow maintaining a positive, lighthearted attitude about mistakes most likely influenced by the fact that I adore my teacher, my friends in class, and of course the inspirational presence of my sister. It's just fun, and a challenge I look forward to meeting class by class.

Oops.

The Night Before the Storm...

After a two week hiatus, the school's workshop continues tomorrow, Tuesday, and Wednesday evening. For those two weeks in between I planned to continue building endurance at the gym, perhaps throw in some strengthening exercises. I was decently motivated, moderately consistent, but too busy to keep up with what I should have. And then disaster struck.

I am certain of one thing; there are thousands of Irish dancers that share this experience. Out at a bar with friends. Dancing around like goofballs. Someone throws in the lawnmower. Someone follows with the shopping cart. It rapidly becomes a game of "how white can you dance?" and suddenly you are being called upon to strut perhaps the whitest moves of all- Irish. Your smart voice tells you, take it easy. Your drunk voice tells you, I'M JEAN BUTLER!!! And then you hear a snap, and whichever part of your brain it belongs to, only one voice resonates. Shit. 

The injury itself isn't bad at all. Turns out my sister (soberly) twisted her ankle the exact same way a few months ago and offered a solid prognosis- I'd be fine to dance next week in sneakers but I need to stay off of it as much as possible.

Considering I spend most of my days on the move, this proved challenging. I was good about wearing sneakers, wrapping with an ace bandage, icing when possible and Advil-popping when I remembered to... I was not good about staying off it. Life can't stop because I was an overconfident drunk buffoon. Luckily the week was free of any workshop classes so I could focus on resting it as much as possible and working instead on my core with Ab Ripper X. I hate that guy.

And here I sit, the night before the return to the workshop. Tomorrow demonstrates who kept up with what we went over two weeks ago; who knows the steps, who has sat on the couch with an icepack on her foot. I'm going to participate (in sneakers) as much as possible, particularly with drills and strengthening. Not only can I not lose mental focus, I should be compensating for my physical inability by amping up my self-motivation and drilling the steps in my head.

I feel it's important to note here that my end goal has nothing to do with competition. The reasoning behind my intensity is this; I do not need to be a champion in Irish dance. I need to dance. I am happiest when I'm dancing- not just tapping around here and there, but actually in shape, motivated, and routinely going to class. Second nature. Sorry guys I can't on Saturday, I have dance. Oh, I have dance Tuesday, how about Wednesday? When it's a part of my life. And the thing with Irishstep is that it doesn't fit into your life when you want it. You have to fight for it. Very, very hard. Mental battles, physical pain and discomfort, and deeply rooted insecurity are amongst the top few obstacles I anticipate aside from the aggravatingly gradual process of building my stamina.

And so tomorrow we will see how it goes. One class at a time.

Day One

Inaccurate published date- I saved this as a draft a few weeks ago and forgot to post. Good start.

The First Class Back

The bottom of a cliff. It starts here. It matters much less to be out of shape today; everyone is, on their own level, out of shape. What matters is that I’m fully aware I will be sore the rest of the week into next, and I’m excited. I must stay motivated. Somehow, I am focused. I’m planning on dedicating a few nights out of my week to dance this year. I’m making myself think long term, because otherwise I will miss one class and feel like I'm already behind. And then another class, and I’ll wonder if it’s worth going again if I’m going to be so lost. And then months will pass and I will be pining for the feel of it again.

It helps also this year that it’s going to be a small workshop. Fewer young dancers gawking at me like I’m Cookie Monster and they’re Keebler Elves (... what?) and more time focusing on keeping my inner merciless critic at bay.

This time is different because I feel the same way I did back in 2006 heading back- I don’t have to be perfect. I admit I am at a disadvantage, and I have to work hard to overcome. It won’t be easy, or natural, or quick. It’s going to take sacrifice. It’s going to be humbling and it’s going to try my character. Will I give up when I haven’t exceeded my astronomical expectations of myself? Or will I get over myself and just dance.

Of course, late to the first class. Worse still, made my good friend late. A moment on the train- I should text her and tell her to go without me. I’ll be relieved, an insecure voice says. I can go home and sleep. I can avoid all of this failure I’m quite literally going to be watching in the mirror.

No. I must go through with this. The embarrassment of being late, the guilt of making my friend late. The whole class. I am going. My resolve strengthens. It will be okay.

The initial stretches hurt, but I’m proud of my balance and semblance of flexibility despite a sedentary summer. For the first time ever, I don’t shrink knowing I’m the biggest one in class. Or the slowest. The other girls are focused on their own progress, and if by chance they are watching me it will give them a reference for when I’m better and they can say, wow! She’s come a long way. For once, I am not embarrassed. I am determined. I am not perfect. And it is okay.

Small victories. I finish three of the four “Happy Hundreds”; 100 lifts in front hands behind head, 100 in back, 100 jumping jacks… and I could have done 100 seconds of jump rope but I would have peed the floor. I relish how much I’m shaking as we do balancing lunges in the back. “The more difficult it is, the more you need it.” Helen’s words spiral around my head and- though I’m going my own pace- I do not stop. I do not give up.

I’m glad to be learning the same hard shoe-soft shoe combination as my sister and my friend. My brain needs to become readjusted to the quick learning the championship class is The slip jig is beautiful and not terribly hard to pick up. I’ve yet to do the right and left foot consecutively but on the way home was already listening to slip jig music to mentally drill. The hornpipe is trickier. I don’t understand how it fits with the music, but I’ll figure it out on Thursday at the next class. My hard shoes are too tight and worn; they won’t support me if I try to go on my toes. Another disadvantage- now I’ll get over it. I’ll get new shoes in the upcoming months and be cursing the process of breaking them in.

Next class is Wednesday.