Oh, the satisfaction of trying something new! Even if you do, well, stink at first. How fulfilling to practice, practice, practice and see yourself improve over time. I didn’t completely murder the fine art of modern dance, but I did mar it quite a bit. Daily dance rehearsal busted my buns so badly, in fact, that nightly bubble baths were the only way I could bounce back. (See pic above of my friend and me, on the right, at rehearsal.) And yet, it felt so good to stretch out of my comfort zone and give it a go. Why not stretch your wings and see how far you can fly? Then for bravely tackling a new task or talent, reward yourself with a luxurious lemongrass soak in the tub. It worked for me!
Lemongrass Bath Soak
5 drops of lemongrass aromatherapy essential oil (Or your favorite. I also love grapefruit, orange, lavender, tea tree, & eucalyptus.)
1 cup epsom salts (replenishes magnesium and flushes toxins)
1 cup baking soda (anti-fungal, cleansing, and softens skin)
Dump & dissolve it all in a tub of comfortably hot water. Soak in it while reading the story below (unplugged, of course).
Enjoy the next excerpt from
by Kristi Lynn Davis
It just so happened that the rehearsal studio Mirmdance rented was in the same building as the Jennifer Muller modern dance workshop Jenny and I were taking. So for the next four weeks, we danced with The Works from nine to five, and on our two-hour lunch break, instead of taking a much-needed load off our overworked feet, we ran upstairs to the Nikolais Louis Dancespace to rehearse with Mirmdance. It was exhausting, for sure, but exhilarating.
I began to fall into a comfortable routine. Every morning on the way to the subway, I’d stop at the Chinese fruit market for a giant bran muffin and a coffee in an “I ♥ NYC” cup to go. Those fruit markets, Chinese because Chinese people run them, were one of my favorite things about New York. They had fresh produce, unbelievable salad bars, sushi, a small selection of groceries, gargantuan muffins, hot coffee, and an assortment of bulk Chinese junk food. There seemed to be one on nearly every block, and they were open twenty-four hours a day. I never felt completely alone in The City, because I always knew that, even in the middle of the night, I could find an Asian storekeeper awake and tending the market.
Next I’d patronize one of the most important establishments in my Upper East Side neighborhood: the H&H Bagel shop on 72nd and Second Avenue. H&H became my all-purpose meal stop, providing lunch and dinner. Their bagels were the best I’d ever tasted, with fluffy veggie cream cheese piled on as thick as the bagel itself. I could get two meals out of one overstuffed bagel by permitting myself to eat only half for lunch and saving the rest for dinner. Practically subsisting on bagels and cream cheese and bran muffins and coffee, I wasn’t exactly ingesting the most nutritious diet, but at least it was cheap and tasty.
The day’s meals purchased, I’d walk toward the subway, gazing up at the tall apartment buildings, amazed at how people grew trees and plants and gardens in any tiny space they could, even on rooftops. Permanent New York residents were aliens to me. Their world was so foreign and exotic. I’d read names on brass placards decorating the front gates of brownstones in disbelief that people truly called these their home. Some even grew up here. I’d never even used the word “brownstone” before.
Neither had I much practice taking the subway, which offered its own little adventure. Apparently, I needed to learn the correct way to buy subway tokens. This skill was taught to me by none other than Jenny who, after observing me fumbling about in my purse for change, thereby holding up the hurried queue of real New Yorkers, their annoyance escalating by the second, took it upon herself to correct my misdemeanor. “Kristi, you are fodder for muggers if you flounder about distracted like that. You have to be prepared, know the system, and buy your tokens without pause.” She showed me how to function like a smoothly oiled machine, thereby leaving little opportunity to be accosted.
Summers were sweltering, and some of the subways had no air conditioning. During morning rush hour, the stifling subways were crammed with sweaty business men and women in suits. On a typical day, as the doors were about to close, yet another New Yorker late for work would perform a kamikaze leap onto the train and squeeze into the already-packed sardine can forcing me to press my body so close to the guy next to me that I could feel the steam rising from his chest. It felt like I was involuntarily participating in one of those college pranks where all fifty-seven fraternity guys pile themselves into one phone booth, arms and legs wrapped around each other in a perverted game of Twister. The humid air hung thick with the odor of damp pressed-wool, cigarettes, cologne, and sweat.
New York City itself had its own special summer smell: a combination of subway grease, exhaust fumes, tar, sun-baked ketchup on cement, and dried urine. It reminded me of the rank aroma of my filthy jeans after I slept on train floors and park benches during my backpacking trip through Europe.
After successfully extricating myself from the subway, I’d stroll the final few blocks to the dance studio. I learned my way around Manhattan fairly easily once I realized that the Avenues ran north and south and the streets ran east and west. I’d never walk more than a block in the wrong direction before being able to figure out where I was.
The Muller workshop was held at a lovely studio space called Peridance. At the entrance there was even a snack bar where you could buy yogurt, bananas, and bagels. The lobby was also where everyone hung out and stretched while waiting for class to begin. I never tired of watching all the svelte, toned, barefoot modern dancers warming up their feet and legs with their wooden foot-roller massagers and giant rubber bands.
One day, in one corner, a group of very thin but muscular men sat lacing up their pointe shoes. Is that Ballet Trockadero? It was. They were a famous men’s ballet troupe, a transvestite-ish group of dancers who dressed as prima ballerinas in real tutus and pointe shoes and performed spoofs of the classical ballets like Swan Lake. They were incredibly skilled ballerinas. But where do they find pointe shoes big enough to fit those manly feet? And just how did they hide those manly groin bulges under their leotards? I was unable to take my eyes off them. I had seen them perform in Detroit and was absolutely overjoyed to be in the same room with these impressive, athletic, comedic performers.
The workshop was taught by members of The Works. The gorgeous girls, in their beautiful leotards, were so light and thin that they’d surely fly away like a feather if you blew on them. I wished I were thinner and had smaller breasts so I could go braless and wear lovely leos like they did, but I’d be Bouncing Betty B-cups unless I strapped myself down in a straitjacket. There simply wasn’t room for boobs in the world of serious dance.
All the classes had live piano accompaniment, which was such a treat. My favorite musician was a cute, young, blond guy who sang the most mellifluous, soothing, nonsense syllables while playing. His voice and music were heavenly and inspirational, nothing like dancing to recorded music. It was like Brie versus the Cheez Whiz I was accustomed to. His magical melodies transported me into another realm of feeling and expression.
And yet, even with the inspiring accompaniment, I sometimes felt like the worst person in class, given my lack of modern dance training. The dance combinations were physically and mentally challenging and were taught at lightning speed. I had to focus and concentrate completely at all times.
There was one particular performance class I didn’t care for in which we had to walk solo around in a circle, expressing on our faces our motivation for circling. We were then directed to increasingly accelerate the speed. “Something is pulling you. What is it?” probed the teacher. “There has to be a reason for you to dance. Show your motivation.” I dreaded having to take my turn walking and then running the circumference of the room while being critiqued. I was not good at emoting unless I was emoting unadulterated bliss; for my entire dance career to date, I had pretty much plastered on an obnoxious, toothy smile. Feelings were not my forte. “What exactly is my motivation to dance?” I pondered. “I do it, because I must. What else would I do?”
Jenny and I were in different classes, because I was a beginner and she was more advanced. But we’d meet at lunch break and run upstairs together to rehearse with the seven women and three men that comprised Mirmdance. In our performance bios, Miriam summed us up as follows (The extra descriptions in parentheses are from me.):
The Men:
Compact Powerhouse (small, cute, muscular guy I never really talked to)
Southern Gent (sweet queen with a strong southern accent)
Snow White Male (my friend Adam, who always sported a trendy scarf and toted a big bag of Chinese junk food)
The Women:
Koala (short, Jewish gal who cooked sauerbraten, journaled about her dancing, and dated a Chinese guy from Chinatown)
Trinidadian Jazzarino (flaming-red-haired temptress with six-pack abs)
Impish (petite brunette)
Resembles a giraffe (tall blonde)
Ivory Girl (massage therapist in the making)
She’s got legs (my leggy friend Jenny)
All American (me)
The cast of characters fascinated me. I especially couldn’t wait to go to rehearsal just to see what new contraption the Trinidadian Jazzarino, Sharla, was wearing. She absolutely oozed sex. In place of a traditional leotard, she would wrap her slim, toned body in an assortment of twisted rags that just barely covered the private parts. She was so creative with clothing, she could have taken garbage bags off the street and found a way to finagle them into haute couture. Everything looked good on that woman. And she looked even better in practically nothing.
Unfortunately, I got cast in “Lucy’s Future”–the squid-monster piece that was supposedly about female sexuality. (I discovered that modern dancers call a dance number a “piece.” It sounded strange to me: a piece of dance?) Appropriately, Sharla the sex-goddess played the lead, Lucy. I also danced in “99 Reasons to Wear Condoms,” a provocative piece set not to music but to narration about how AIDS spreads throughout a community and not just among gay males. All of Miriam’s unique, creative, modern choreography intrigued me and opened my eyes to an entirely new way of moving. But my favorite piece, “Set Free,” was a bluesy, hanging-around-the-front-porch-in-our-blue-jeans-type piece where I could smile and have fun and dance kind of jazzily. The company members regularly made fun of me for dancing like a jazz dancer, which I was, after all. Modern dance was a stretch for me, pun intended.
I’d arrive home in the evening absolutely spent from an entire day of dancing my heart out. My muscles were often so stiff and achy that all I could do was sink into a bubble bath before collapsing in bed. But there was something so satisfying about working hard and challenging myself at something I loved and wanted to try, even though I was quite the novice and had a lot to learn before I’d be swimming as fluidly as the other sea monsters.
Meanwhile, matters back at Ashley’s apartment weren’t showing any signs of improvement. Quite the contrary. The herb garden on the balcony was wilting in spite of my desperate attempts to keep it alive. Those plants must’ve felt like they didn’t belong in the city either. I was still terrified of becoming a homicide victim during the night. To make matters worse, after weeks of being locked out of the bedroom, the cat hated me. We became bitter enemies; to spite me, he pooped right in front of me on the virtually impossible-to-clean, expensive, natural-fiber floor covering in the living room. To top that, no matter how many times I’d wash my clothes, Midnight’s black, needle-like hair would be inextricably threaded through the fibers, itching me throughout the day–a permanent reminder that he was out to irritate me. I dreaded coming home at night for fear of what that pussy had planned and would cautiously peek through the doorway to see where he was poised, ready to pounce.
Feline fracas aside, I began to embrace my new identity as a modern dancer. The first thing I did was to go out and buy a foot roller, and, more importantly, knee pads for rehearsal. As squids, we were constantly, painfully crawling about on our knees. Determined to keep my kneecaps intact for future use, pads were priority. Then I went searching for some hipper clothes, so I’d feel more like a real, artsy dancer. I bought pastel, mint-green, high-top tennis shoes that were comfy for walking in; brown, lace-up granny boots; and a black flannel jumpsuit, which I accessorized with a brown leather belt and a stylish brown fedora from a trendy shop on Canal Street. I was now able to assume the role of professional modern dancer.
The end of the four weeks with The Works culminated in an invited performance followed by a wine and cheese party. Wearing my own blazer and jazz pants, I got to dance in a piece about life on the city street. I loved performing it. My sister and her boyfriend drove all the way from Michigan for my New York debut. Performers included serious dancers from Japan, Cal Arts, and other prestigious dance academies, and here I was with little training beyond my local dance school, dancing and partying among them. I called home to my parents during the after-glow festivities. “I’m in New York City dancing for an audience and eating wine and cheese!” It was a dream come true. I was on top of the world.
Stretch out of your comfort zone. Be flexible and try something new. You just may end up on top of the world. Thanks for reading. Join me again next week for some serious New York City culture shock.
Reach onward and upward,
Kristi
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