If you know me, then you’re familiar with my propensity for breaking out in to song and dance. Odd? Possibly. Irritating? I’m sure. Necessary? 100%.
Here’s the deal: I self medicate with music and movement. When reality is talking too loudly or emotion is drunk and won’t leave the party, I immerse myself in rhythm, beats, and melodies. I transport my soul to the dance floor in my head and move like I never axed my ballet career. And yeah, in my world, everyone is watching me.
The power of choreographing confidence and clarity has saved me from embracing a bad habit or nudged me to take a game-changing step. In my dreamlike state, I have no fear, and that’s what I attempt to recreate in real time. It’s a channeling of my inner Pat Benatar. It’s mimicking Misty Copeland.
I’ve made a commitment to myself: giddy up my groove, always. Jump in a pool of acid jazz or heavy metal and swim. Dance it out until my muscles hurt. Perform because the Tony or Oscar is the only acceptable outcome. Make every moment of every day (in fantasy and reality) count.
Thank God it’s (only) Monday.
