Dance Therapy

Last night was, hands-down, the best night I have had in a long while.
Dan and I went to see Rusted Root at the Aladdin Theater in town and had so much fun. Real fun! With laughing! and dancing! and no sign of the irritable and melancholic basket-case that has been haunting my person.

The paradigm shift started that afternoon when I decided to paint my nails. I never ever paint my nails, but I was inspired by the promise of a night on the town to put on some deep dark extra-shiny blue polish. The process of getting the polish on was a bit of a disaster (man I suck at manicures), but the results were transformative. Suddenly I was bad-ass and confident. Thank you, Sally Hansen.

Dan and I had dinner before the show and talked like friends talk. This should not be remarkable, but it is. Instead of fretting about our financial situation, we fantasized about how great it would be if we could just happen to come into an inheritance sometime very soon (sorry, g-mas). Instead of kvetching, we shot the shit and laughed. I could tell the night was going well when I started making snarky remarks about people's outfits. I can be a relentless wardrobe snarker. It is one of my best and worst qualities. However, it takes a certain amount of energy and interest in others to actually put the snark into action. The fact that I had that energy and interest last night was refreshing, and the dude with the faux-rasta beret and the chick with the bleach writing on her jeans provided the perfect entry level material for de-icing my considerable skills.


As soon as the show started, I was at the stage - front and center. I was there to dance. I've been a fan of Rusted Root's for 17 years and they are hands-down, my favorite band to see perform live. Losing myself in their music is my best medicine. Holy shit did I dance. Killed it. Had lengthy periods of "chi dancing", which is when my brain disengages from the process and the music flows through me like love. And I didn't hold back for fear of being laughed at by other people. I had the confidence of 100 Baryshnikovs going on in my little 2X2 square of dance floor. However, I can't say I was a complete island of self-contentedness. I did find myself wondering if the band noticed me. If they appreciated both the joy that their music inspired and the skill with which I transformed that joy into movement. The performer in me wanted to be recognized by the performers on stage.

At the end of the set, the lead singer tossed his guitar pick right toward me. It took a bounce and hit the floor between me and the guy next to me. I paused. I wanted it, but in the way that someone who is too cool to want it would want it. The guy picked it up and said, "its yours". "Thanks", I said, and I took it from him. It is my first piece of stage swag, and I'll keep it somewhere special. Not because it was touched by a rock star, but because it represents a night where I was recognized for being me. I'll remember how that felt most of all.

The last song they played was "Beautiful People", and I cried. Not crazy-hysterical tears, but tears of healing, of longing, and of gratitude.