Trying to advance

If flamenco were a man, he’d be a passionate, manic depressive artist who loves me one minute and hates me the next.

Two posts in one day? Yes! I was inspired to write after tonight’s class. See, tonight was a special night in my relationship with flamenco: I took my first advanced class. Now, I can’t say I am an advanced student yet, but my teacher encouraged me to take the class as a challenge. Ooh, another challenge! Again, I was down.

Advanced class, indeed. I nearly fell over after the first 10 minutes of warm-up footwork. An hour later, my knees are sore and my thighs are still burning. We also learned a mini alegrias choreography and then had to perform it individually. Boy, did I choke. Still, I’d like to believe I had a few brief shining moments, so I’m going to focus on those.

I have been dancing flamenco for about a year and 9 or 10 months. I’m not sure. But it’s definitely been less than two years and tonight I was in class with ladies who have been dancing for 6 or 7 years. How can I keep up with them? I can’t, and I don’t expect to. But I love dancing next to them because they are what I aspire to be. They make me push myself, just like my teacher does.

And now I am completely wound up and won’t be able to sleep for hours. I can’t stop thinking about … him.

If flamenco were a man, he’d be a passionate, manic depressive artist who loves me one minute and hates me the next. He’d make me laugh, then piss me off or make me cry and never apologize. He’d walk ahead of me and make me run to catch up. He’d make a fool of me. I’d knock myself out trying to tame him, but I’d never be able to figure him out. I’d devote all of my time to him and it still wouldn’t be enough. He’d still be difficult. And I’d still love him.

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