Is it Really a New Year? ‘Cause I’ve Been Here Before…

Some of the players: Sunshine, The Gonzo Mama, Mr. Wright and Lulu

In college, I relished nothing more than heading out for a night of “whatever,” and seeing where the universe led me. That, my friends, was years and years ago. These days, I like to have a plan, and I had one for New Year’s Eve.

It was a simple, moderately uneventful one. With all of the kids safely delivered to my in-laws’ home, Mr. Wright and I planned to attend the farewell performance of our favorite Seattle Eighties cover band. You may know the band. They were the house band at Doc Maynard’s for years. In any event, when Mr. Wright and I met, our shared love for this particular band launched us into nine years of cover band groupiehood. We followed the band all over the state, Safety Dancing in our favorite Eighties clothing.

We can dance if we want to. We can leave our friends behind...

Clearly, we had to attend their very last show ever. We’d made arrangements to stay with our friend, Dr. Love, who lives a few blocks from the venue. Our plan also included dinner nearby, but I somehow forgot not only my tights, but also my makeup bag. A trip to the department store provided eighty dollars worth of makeup and hosiery; and we were only forty-five minutes late when met up with our friends, Dr. Love, Sunshine, Big Papa and Lulu.

Somehow, I thought we were all on the same page. I thought the plan was to go to the show, dance our rumps off, watch the Space Needle light up with fireworks, dance some more, and go home.

How silly of me.

After dancing our rumps only partially off, some of our tribe began planning a Belltown invasion. We slipped out the back door of the Armory to watch the fireworks at midnight. Following the obligatory “oooohs” and “aaaaahs,” I found our group had grown from six to nine Bacchanalians, and we were Belltown-bound.

I resisted. “I need to get a t-shirt!” I cried. They were out of shirts. “A tank top? A poster? A bumper sticker? I have to have a memento!” The merchandise vendor shook his head. “We’re out of everything but these refrigerator magnets,” he said.

Seriously... just a another few minutes... I. Just. Need. A t-shirt!

Of course, my refrigerator is aluminum.

Unable to stall our departure any longer, I gave in to the group of friends tugging on my arm and found myself in the middle of a night of “whatever.”

We ran into old friends and made new ones in Belltown before Sunshine announced that she’d obtained the lowdown on a not-to-be-missed party in SoDo. It was 2:00 a.m. I tried to muster some enthusiasm as we caravanned to the shindig, but what I really wanted was a blanket and pillow. “Sure. I’m up for ‘whatever,’” I lied.

This particular “whatever” carried a cover charge of ten bucks per person. We dutifully shelled out multiple bills, with the promise of great music and a big dance floor. The music was there. The dance floor was there. Unfortunately, there were other, less-than-legal party favors, as well. Not our scene. We left immediately. I was secretly happy because, frankly, I could not wait to get to sleep. Our core crew headed to Dr. Love’s, where everyone had parked.

We didn’t arrive alone. In fact, about a dozen other people came through the door in short order. Goodbye, sleep; hello, “whatever.”

I spent half an hour talking to Pinstripe Pete, a nice guy who used to own a clothing store but now works at a vitamin outlet. I made friends with Blondie, who has a sad and overwhelming suspicion that she will never have children. She is, after all, 35 years old and yet to marry. I talked to Big Papa and Lulu – who are considering adoption – about our experience adopting through the state. I kept my distance from Dirty Girl, a questionable character who showed up with The Gallery Owner, a strange little man I’d met before but never really cared for. I talked conservative politics with a moustacheless Rhett Butler lookalike (Timothy Dalton in “Scarlett,” not Clark Gable) – a rare discussion in Seattle, to be sure.

Meet my hetero-lifemate, Lulu

At 6:00 a.m., I surrendered, curling up on the sofa with a blanket and letting 2010 happen around me as I drifted off to sleep with this resolution firm in my mind: I will never, ever, ever try to relive my college days.

Forget “whatever.” I’d like a structured, boring 2010, please.

What’s your wish for the new year? Tell me all about it!

Photos by Lulu and Big Papa

So, You Think You Can Belly Dance?

As the new year begins, I am more determined than ever to attend my weekly belly dance classes. I’m not delusional. I know I’m not getting any better. The thing is, I am way more competitive and stubborn than I am devoted, and one of my fellow mamas is preparing to shake her hips for all the world to see. Well, all of the 206 area code, anyway.

Christy Cuellar-Wentz (Mommy-Muse.com) is not only a talented author and counselor, but also a fearless belly dancer. When Christy, Corbin Lewars (RealityMomZine.blogspot.com), Monica LeMoine (ExhaleZine.com) and I founded the literary performance group Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between), Christy offered to belly dance at our January 24th premiere in Seattle, “to keep the energy up.” When she found out I’d been taking classes, she invited me to perform a dance, as well.

I planned to keep my own energy up through the afternoon and evening performances with a series of triple-shot soy lattes from Starbucks, but Christy’s offer left me feeling a little wimpy. I routinely whine and complain my way through my beginners’ belly dance class, and I’m nowhere near ready to go public.

I’ve heard belly dance is a great way for mothers to reclaim their bodies after new motherhood; that it helps women see themselves as sensual, creative creatures; and that it can help improve body image. Sadly, none of those benefits apply to me.

I have no interest in reclaiming this body, with its Mississippi Delta stretch marks and loose skin that will never, ever shrink back to its proper place. It’s a pathetic sight, watching my four-count shimmy last exactly twelve counts by the time everything stops jiggling. As for the Chest Lifts… let’s just say that, absent an extended vacation from gravity, my chest is not going to lift in any meaningful way anytime soon.

Anyone who has actually seen my attempts at belly dance would ever, ever describe the activity as sensual. Admittedly, there is a great deal of creative movement involved on my part the day after class, when basic activities like sitting and walking are elevated to new heights of pain as every muscle in my body throbs.

My husband imagines that my belly dancing looks something like the graceful, fluid art that takes place on the instructional videos I’ve been collecting. He is disappointed that I won’t perform my new “talent” for him. Obviously, this is a man who did not witness my high school cheerleading career. It will be a very sad day for him when he comes home early and sees me trying to emulate Snake Arms while teetering in Egyptian Basic pose, looking like a stroke victim. There is absolutely no grace in the left half of my body.

I’m resolving to continue, though. Even though I have yet to gain an elementary level of coordination, I’m gleaning positive results. For an hour each week, I get to be a woman, alongside other women. In that hour, there is no family to tend to, nothing on the stove, and no crying babies. I can focus on something that is exclusively, indulgently, just for me. The bonus is that I’ve dropped a pants size since starting a few months ago.

As added incentive, I’ve purchased a silver-white gown for an upcoming event. Although at the time of ordering I was unfamiliar with the color “silver-white,” I now understand it to be the color of masochism, as it reflects light off every bump and lump on my tummy and thighs, grotesquely magnifying them to science fiction proportions.

So look out, Christy! Come this time next year, I’ll be ready to take you up on your offer to belly dance in public. As a preventative measure, I’d like to bar any neurologists from attending my performance, lest my art be medically mistaken for seizure.