Bellydancing
I’m not good with criticism. And I’m a whore for praise and support. It’s not pretty, but it’s true. I’ll go twice as far and work twice as hard for a carrot while a stick will make me sit down and sulk. It makes me a terrible employee and a nervous student, since what I want is to succeed succeed succeed to get the praise that will make me want to work harder and succeed more. All this is fine if I’m doing something I’m good at, but when I’m not good at something? I get all weird and strung out. For example…
I used to live in Cairo. It was so strange and foreign at first and there were very few things that didn’t intimidate me or scare me. Crossing the roads made me feel better. This shortarse girl from Queens couldn’t deal with taxi drivers or the dust but sauntered cheerfully across eight lanes of speeding traffic, occasionally holding my hand in what I knew as the Sicilian sign language for “why do I have to deal with such idiots” but what in Cairo meant “slow down.” It became, in my head, a useful combination of the two.
Another thing that made me feel happy was bellydancing. It wasn’t just for the glamour girls at the nightclubs catering to foreigners or the professionals who danced at weddings (although that too was wonderful) but it was just how people danced. When music played, there was dancing and I was enough of a faker to get along, imitating the movements, the attitude. Most of all, the attitude. And I loved to dance. I didn’t have to work at it. It wasn’t something you could fail at. Just doing it was plenty. And as the years went by, and I grew to love Cairo, and Egypt, bellydancing stayed part of the joy I had in the place. When we had a break in the theater, sometimes we would dance. Or at parties. I was, for those brief moments, a bint al-balad. A daughter of the country. Someone who belonged.
Seven years on, I’m erratically taking a class in bellydancing. I had hoped it would be fun, that again, attitude and basic faking-it would suffice and that I would have shred of a much-missed Cairo back in my life. In fact, it’s really hard work. And I’m not very good at it. I’m not, in fact, very flexible, or very fit. I have a hard time locating any muscle on my body, never mind differentiating between the top stomach muscles and the bottom. I go to class and I look in the mirror and I see how much older I am, how much more tired and there is hardly anything about it that reminds me of clapping and laughing with friends in Egypt. The contrast makes the class harder than it should be, because I am still with friends and we are still laughing. But now I can do things wrong. And while I was struggling along, getting things wrong and being corrected — nicely, helpfully — I kept thinking. I could be knitting. I could be reading. I could be somewhere where I can’t do things wrong.
But if I’m not willing to do things wrong, how will I learn?
See? That’s what motherhood does. Takes your rebellious teenage self and your mother and unprettily and painfully morphs them into one confused person. No wonder I’m wider than I was.
I’m tempted to say that you’re not doing things wrong, you’re just doing them as right as you can at the time, but that sounds like doublespeak, doesn’t it? Maybe what I really mean is that doing things wrong but doing them is so much better, richer, than not doing them at all, for fear of criticism.
I get all wrapped up in the “Am I good Enough” and “Grade me Grade Me!” philosophy a lot. I try to focus on just trying and doing my best because I do not want my daughter to feel not good enough ever. Belly dancing sounds like it should be more fun than work though!
ohmygod, how true. I don’t care to look into the mirror lately, either, especially when I’m expecting to see something sexy. I know I’m being overly critical of myself, but jeez – all I see is the ways I am older. And like Clinton, I don’t like it.
again, i am struck with the division that motherhood makes–for better and for worse.
i suppose when (if) that day comes for myself, i’ll try try TRY to remind myself that i’m still me. and i wouldn’t belly dance in front of mirrors. it makes us so self-concious that we forget what dancing is for–freeing the soul, unleashing the passions, feeling the earth with our feet.
what a muse you are to me!
As often, your writing makes me smile (ruefully) and think.
One of the hardest things about motherhood for me is letting her make mistakes, so that she can learn from them.
She’s well into puberty now and its AWFULLLLLLL.
And I’m learning from my own mistakes.
thanks, this is great writing.
Ok, I have to read the real post because I saw bellydancing and thought OMG! I love her more every post. lol
A friend roped me into joining her class last year and I loved it. So much fun! We’d stop and grab a beer or two afterwards and dish abt some of the women in the class. One was having some kind of midlife crisis and was always going on about how the interns in her office had crushes on her, and it was all due to bellydancing. @@
Maybe try a different teacher or style? Or convinceyour wildest friend to sign up? Or drive for a day and take a class here with us in the fall? lol
ps–I really like this practice dvd. Maybe I’ll shake my lazy butt away from the laptop, turn of Caillou and shimmy around a bit.
Yogic drills for bellydance
You are freaking hilarious.
I beg to differ though. At least for you.
I think motherhood makes you complex, beautiful, souldful, thoughtful, and fabulous.
soulful. Soulful. There is no “d” in the word.
Apologies, can I blame it on motherhood? I’m confused.