Why Don’t We Just Dance

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I want someone to take me dancing. Not grinding, not jumping, not waddling, but actual dancing. I want to dress up and wait by my window until I see his car pull into my driveway. I want to rush to meet him at the door and be surprised that he brought me flowers. I want him to take my hand, grab my waist and lead me through the steps. I want awkward closeness and accidental feet-stepping-on. I want overly romantic music that’s so cheesy it makes me laugh. I want to be so focused on getting the steps right that when I finally look up my heart leaps because never had I seen so much love in someone’s eyes; big, mesmerizing eyes that excite me and scare me all at the same time. Worried that I can’t return his gaze, I’ll just blush and look away. Before I can worry more and recede further into my introverted shell, he will dip me and spin me and twirl me all around the room. He’ll sing off tune to the music and I’ll giggle and forget what was bothering me earlier. I’ll comment on his bow-tie and he’ll tell me that I should wear dresses more often. As we dance, I’ll daydream into the future and i’ll see a strip of visions: me and him dancing at our wedding, evidence of cake smeared on our faces from earlier; then him dancing with my little, curly-haired girl, already a better father than mine ever was; and finally our bodies are wrinkled and tired, but he’ll twirl me around the room just as confidently as our first dance. When I come back to reality i’ll notice that the music has stopped playing, but we continue to dance. At that moment I’ll realize the importance of a single waltz and just how the Prince could make Cinderella fall in love with him in only a few short hours. This time, when I look back into his eyes, I won’t be scared because I know that when I look back at him I can return all the love he offers me. And all of this would have happened because I wanted to go dancing and he took me.

WATCH THIS: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IH1Z9DEDqpk

Help…

peter

Today it hit me: in a couple of years I’m going to be expected to live on my own. In a couple of years it won’t be okay that I’m living with my parents or that they pay my insurance. In a couple of years I’m going to be expected to pay rent, buy groceries, make my own car/phone/insurance payments, start my career and get a real job. In a couple of years I’m going to be expected to start “settling down”, finding a husband and planning a family. In a couple of years people are going to start asking me who I voted for and what my stance is on this or that subject. In a couple of years I’m going to be expected to know what’s going on in the world and why gas prices are so high. In a couple of years I’m supposed to know how to cook my own meals… in an oven. In a couple of years it will be my responsibility to stay in shape, not my coach’s. In a couple of years I’m supposed to know what I’m doing with my life.

I’m not ready. I can’t be an adult because, frankly, I’m not grown up enough for it. I still cling to Disney movies, pillow forts, hide ‘n’ seek, knock-knock jokes, and coloring books. The idea of a pack of crayons and a card board box still excites me. I still dream of the perfect tree house and the day I can sled down an ice cream mountain. All these years I’ve kept my window open, hoping Peter Pan would take me away to Neverland, but he never came. I’m not ready to grow up. I’m not ready to make decisions. I’m not ready to be responsible. I’m not ready to live alone. I’m not ready to make extravagant dinners for one or many. I’m not ready to go to my high school reunion. I’m not ready to settle down with the love of my life. I’m not ready to buy a house and pay bills and mortgages. I’m not ready to care for children and watch them grow older. I’m not ready to watch my grandparents die and my parents take their place in nursing homes. I’m not ready to see the wrinkles form on my face and hands. I’m not ready for the day my body tells me I can’t run anymore. I’m not ready to take pills with every meal. I’m not ready to say good bye to the ones i love. I’m not ready to die.

On my sixth birthday, I cried. I cried because I didn’t want to be older, I wanted to stay a little girl forever. I still want that.

Be the Hummingbird

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The problem with being a young adult in our society is that everyone looks to me to fix the world. They point out issues like deforestation, world hunger, wars, global warming, etc., and they say “It’s all up to you to fix our mistakes!” Aren’t you forgetting something? You still live on this planet too! How can you expect the younger generations to save the world, if the older population is doing nothing, but holding them back? I look at the issues of the world and I am overwhelmed with two sensations: one of complete insignificance, feeling like what I am and what I do is all in vain, and the other a debilitating responsibility, as if doomsday is closing in and it’s up to me to save the world now. Instant anxiety attack. I feel helpless, I feel useless, and I feel angry. How can you thrust this responsibility on me and expect me to fix it? How can I save the world if I can’t even save myself? I am trying to finish schooling. I am trying to start my career. I am trying to build a life for myself. I am trying to start a family. I am trying to find my place in this world. I am trying to discover the person I want to be. And you, you have a life, a job, a family, money and security. You are the most capable to save this world right now. You may think you haven’t enough time to do anything significant, but what you can do is lay the ground work for me. Start building the path, so that when I reach you, I can pick up right where you left off and start making my own contribution. I can’t do this on my own.

There’s the story of the Hummingbird and the forest fire: One day, a huge fire began destroying the entire forest. All of the animals ran for cover and watched, dumbfounded, in safety as their homes were being burned. None of them did anything about it, except for the Hummingbird. The Hummingbird saw his home being destroyed and decided to do something, so he went to the nearest river and picked up a drop of water in his beak, flew it over the forest, and dropped it on the fire. Not wasting anytime, he rushed back to the river, collected his single drop of water, and flew back to the fire. Back and forth, again and again, he flew as fast as his little wings could carry him, and the other forest animals just stared at him. Of course, the other animals were much larger than the Hummingbird and could carry more water, but they did nothing to help. They merely watched and discouraged the Hummingbird. They looked at him and shouted “Why do you do this? You can’t put out the fire, your wings are too small and your beak is too little!” Not wasting anytime the Hummingbird shouted back, “I’m doing the best I can!”

What I Like Best

pooh

“Well,” said Pooh, “what I like best,” and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn’t know what it was called.”

What I like best is looking at old pictures and reminiscing; I like best sitting alone and watching the world move around me; I like best watching old movies and falling in love with the characters again; I like best singing and dancing to my favorite music; I like best the smell of brand new tennis shoes and the smell of go-kart exhaust; I like best eating large dinners surrounded by family and friends; I like best the sound of my name being used by a stranger; I like best the aching of my muscles the day after a strenuous workout; I like best the feeling of weightlessness and absolute silence underneath water; I like best the flight of stomach butterflies caused by a sudden drop; I like best the comfort of long hugs and the feeling of another’s hand in mine; I like best watching others find happiness and fall in love; I like best listening to the accents of foreigners; I like best being absolutely dumbfounded at the hands of mystery novels and magicians; I like best daydreaming of things that could be; I like best the feeling just as my head hits the pillow for the night; I like best the final release of tears after I’ve been restraining them for so long; I like best listening to children talk and getting a glimpse at the way they make sense of things in their underdeveloped mind; I like best the satisfaction of eating a freshly, perfectly baked chocolate chip cookie; but what I like most is knowing that each new day offers another chance for me to experience these simple pleasures again.

The Reason

HEART

I think the reason that I tend to shy away from relationships and emotion often is because I feel too deeply. When I start to love someone, I can’t draw myself away from them; suddenly I am completely dependent on their presence in my life. Being away from them hurts, but being near them is a whole different pain. It’s the pain of my head regulating my actions so my heart isn’t wounded in the end. It orders me, “Don’t stand too close to him, avoid physical contact as much as possible” and “Don’t laugh too loud at his jokes, quit smiling like a dumb fool”, all in the attempt to keep him from finding out. If he knew how much I need to see him and hear him, how high my heart leaps when I read his name; he would have too much power over me. Telling him is like handing my heart over to him and begging “please, don’t hurt it.” With my heart he can see every scratch, every bruise, every weakness that defines me. With my heart he can control me and break me, if he chooses. The worst part of giving away my heart is not waiting around for him to injure it, but waiting around for him to give it back; for the day he finally says, “Here, take it. I don’t want it anymore.” It’s whole and untouched, but the weight of it is unbearable. I had grown so used to him carrying it for me and now it was my responsibility again. Most women leap at the moment to thrust their heart into another man’s hands again, but I am reluctant. Having it back, I grow used to the heaviness of every emotion and the idea of giving it away fills me with fear. Having it back, I remember the strength of my independence and how weak, how dependent, I was without it. Having it back, I remember the person I was before him and the person I want to continue to be. For some reason, I always lose myself in love. I start trying to be the person they want, and I lose the person I am. Falling out of love is always a huge relief for me because I can finally stop pretending. I’m not gentle, kind, fragile, loving, passive, or perfect. I’m flawed, rude, sarcastic, rough, independent and competitive. And I’m okay with that. I like who I am and I hate that love changes me; and for that reason, I avoid it.

If I could relive any day…

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I wouldn’t go back to my first kiss; it lacked skill, grace, and magic. I wouldn’t go back to my High School Graduation; I graduated knowing possibly 10% of my class of 350, and I liked less than 1% of them. I wouldn’t go back to my senior prom or my not-so-sweet sixteen or my first date. These are the best days of our lives, or so everyone says, but for me, they were nothing more than huge disappointments. I’m an analyzer, a romantic, an over-thinker, and days like these are ones that I dream about for weeks, even months, before they happened. I had an intricate script written out, that mapped every conversation, every action, every minuscule detail that would take place. The only problem was, no one knew their parts. They never said what I wanted them to, never did what I thought they’d do. Things don’t happen in real life like they do in my head. So no, I wouldn’t want to go back and relive one day. Instead, I’d rather go back a relive a few short, but perfect moments. Moments where reality matched my fantasy world for a few fleeting seconds. I’ll highlight just a few moments that I would go back to:

1) The first moment would be the most recent one. A few days ago I did something courageous, daring, and completely out of character: I put all my trust in a foreigner’s hands as I hopped onto the handle bars of his bike and let him peddle me to our destination. I know it’s not something most people would turn back time to relive, but the three minutes or so I sat perched on his bike were a few of the best minutes I’ve ever enjoyed. Try to imagine: my hands inches from his, my back leaned against his chest so he could see ahead, my head resting in the nook between his neck and shoulder, my heart racing from fear and excitement, smiles plastered across both of our faces, and the envious stares of onlookers. It was a simple moment, but it was a perfect one nonetheless.

2) Next I would travel many many years ago to my childhood when I lived in the greatest neighborhood of all time. There were about 18 of us kids residing there at the time, anywhere between the ages of 5 and 13. This one particular summer evening all of us kids were conveniently  home and outside at the same time. So imagine this: parents on their front lawn stretched out in lawn chairs, a variety of play toys (bikes, scooters, balls, tents, sticks, chalk, skate boards, roller skates, hoops, goals, traffic cones, jump ropes, the list goes on…) sprawled across yards and into the street, and children running around wildly, immersed in whatever game that was holding their attention at that time. I was eleven then, so I was at the transitional age of growing into a teenager, but still fighting to remain a kid. Appreciating what I had at that moment, ignoring the difficulty of life that was coming, I played hard past sundown, past the waking of fireflies, past multiple “five more minutes, mom”, until the threat of grounding tore me away from my perfect moment.

3) My final moment (though I could pick so many more) would be a high school cross country race that I won. It wasn’t a big or important race, it wasn’t my first victorious race, and it wasn’t even a record-breaking race. What made this race stand out was what happened before and during it… I have no qualities that make me stand out, I’m a pretty average individual, and in those days before the race I was feeling the effects of this more than ever. It didn’t make me feel inadequate or unwanted, being average just made me feel unimportant and ordinary. There wasn’t a single thing that made me stand out in a crowd, except running. The only thing I ever succeeded in was running, and this race reminded me of that fact. When I was running people risked sore throats to shout my name from across the field; they pressed their bodies against the roped boundaries of the course so they could make their support apparent; and they shrieked with excitement when our eyes locked and I nodded a silent “Thank you”. Even coaches from other schools were eager to see me finish over a minute in front of second place. In this race, when every muscle in my body was screaming with agony, my soul was rejoicing. A part of me will be forever trapped in that single moment, that moment when I was completely invincible, because in that moment I wasn’t average, I was elite.

She – A Character Profile

womenShe was forgotten easily by everyone she encountered. This part intrigued him. How can she walk through people’s lives without creating even the slightest impact on their memory? Then he realized it is because there is nothing memorable about her upon a first glance. She wasn’t exceptionally beautiful nor ugly; not a mean person, but not significantly kind either; she kept to herself, but was always a part of the crowd; and she did what was expected of her, but never more. She wasn’t wealthy, neither was she poor. Not a simple-minded person, but then again not ostentatiously intelligent either. She was good at everything she pursued, yet never the best. Because of this she sailed through life under the radar, unnoticed by peers and superiors alike. Why then did she make such an impression on him?

She was an exceptionally ordinary girl and still there was something about her. Something in the way she brushed her hair aside to show the wrinkles of concentration stretched across her forehead, lost in thought. Something in the way she walked: quickly, but not in a hurried fashion. A sort of happy bounce, swinging her arms a little too high, as if she would take off running at any given moment. She wasn’t breathtakingly gorgeous, but rather an average beauty. She looked much too young for her age, having a naturally skinny physique with a budding figure and knobby knees. She had long, thick hair that regretfully looked best in only one style: pulled back into a side ponytail, the only style she ever wore. Her greatest beauty was in her eyes. Some days they were a dull gray and others a brilliant blue, but always they were lit up as if she constantly laughed at a joke only she understood. Her thin lips rested upon her face, slightly curved upward, waiting to join her eyes in silent laughter. It was these features, subtle yet important, that gave the impression of a thorough contentment with her life. Every day she did something that no one else can do, be alone and be happy. And she was always alone. Even when surrounded by millions of people she gave the impression of being separated, as if she were merely a background character, irreplaceably there but having little significance. Unforgettably forgettable.