I’ve noticed lately that I’ve settled into a kind of perma-PMS state. The smallest thing out of place fills me with hate-fire, and I can’t even listen to a Justin Bieber song without choking up. This is a most interesting change from my usual state of emotionless zombie. Other than taking a pregnancy test every month for the last 6 months – one line every time, yessssss – I haven’t really given it much thought. I’ve just kind of accepted it, like muffin-top and adult acne.
Now, though, I’m thinking that my brain is screaming for some sort of outlet. Sitting on the couch all day certainly isn’t doing my body good; same goes for my mental health I’m guessing. So…the question is, what to do about it? The answer, dear readers, is this:
I wanna dance!
Now I know what you’re thinking – nice Dazed & Confused ripoff Manda, now get serious for Chrissakes! But I actually am being serious. I came to this conclusion by obsessively overanalyzing my sudden onset of overly emotional reactions to completely irrelevant things. I mean, it’s one thing to get choked up over a sappy song; it’s quite another to actually want to castrate your husband for putting the milk back on the wrong shelf. Don’t get me wrong – I feel very strongly about which shelf the milk belongs on, and woe betide anyone who puts it back in the wrong place, but lately I literally feel something beyond rage over things that usually are just a regular annoyance for anyone used to being as neurotic as I am.
And then we have music. Albus Dumbledore once remarked “Ah, music – a magic beyond all we do here!”, and if Dumbledore wasn’t already my hero, he won the honour with those words. I’ve always felt a strong connection to music. It’s something that most of us can relate to – there’s just something about it that touches the most human facet of our beings. And let me just say that lately, music is touching me something serious – heads out of the gutter peeps, you know what I mean!
So, like any good anxious person, I decided to analyze the everloving shit out of it until I could figure out why Britney Spears’ “Everytime” makes me blubber like an infant. Seriously, WTF is happening to me?? I’ll say it, I love Britney; I’m a true child of the 90’s, butterfly clips included, but to be brought to tears by that? Something is clearly wrong here, besides all the obvious things.
I need to express myself. In a non-swearing, non-destructive way. Sad face.
Music seems to be the key here. I feel it pulling at me, all the time. It’s getting a bit annoying, like, I feel you ok? Stop pulling on me, you’re ruining my lazy vibe. My protests; however, are in vain. It just keeps pulling. I’ve thought about going back to learning guitar, but it’s the only instrument so far that I’ve ever put my hands on and not been able to play by ear (Rainman, right here). It kinda makes me want to smash the guitar and any surrounding furniture into firewood, like Motley Crüe in a swanky hotel room. Not good. Then there’s singing…I can carry a tune alright, but I watch way too much X-Factor on YouTube to truly believe that I’m anything special in that department. My mad rapping skills are also at an all time coughyousuck low. So that’s a no. And then we come ’round to dancing.
I told you before that I’m a dance mom. I’m not desperate to steal my kids thunder here, or re-live my youth, or anything crazy like that. Let’s get that out of the way right now. What I am desperate to do is understand and channel this torrent of emotions being unleashed from the depths of my emotional subconscious. I want to feel the music. Like Patrick Swayze said. Man, what I wouldn’t give to have him around to teach me the Merengue. RIP Johnny.
Anyway, the point I’m dancing around here – haha, dancing, get it? You got it. The point is that I’m going to make you a promise. I’m going to dance. I have a room in my basement that I lovingly call “the Hoarding Room”. It looks like something you’d see on TLC, minus the cockroaches. March break starts on Monday, and I am kid-free. That’s right. A whole week to myself. I pledge here and now to spend part of that week cleaning that room and getting ready to turn it into a mini dance studio where I can flop around to my hearts content; sobbing to Selena Gomez while I try to do a pirouette and hold a Twinkie at the same time without falling on my ass.
I did dance, you know. For like fifteen years. It’s gotta still be in there somewhere, like riding a bike. I also went through a pole fitness phase last year, and I got pretty damn good at it. I even bought my own pole. It’s somewhere in the Hoarding Room, with my yoga mat, my quilting supplies, my knitting tote, my…guuuuuuhhhh. This is going to be fun, I can tell. It’s going to work too – you wait and see. I’m going to be the Julianne-freaking-Hough of my block. Nobody puts Manda in a corner.
So that’s my promise. I’m finally at a point where I’m willing to listen to what my subconscious is telling me. I’m ready to do something. Maybe the tiny bit of writing I’ve done has shaken something loose; I don’t know, but we’re gonna go with it. Look out music, I’m coming for you.