Stream of Consciousness: Day 5 (UNO)

I love getting the Wild card in an UNO game, and I love what it represents: a complete change, only for my benefit.  They’re the best! There should be UNO cards that I can use in real life. 

If I decide to make a major change in my life, I’ll throw down a Wild card, and no one can do a thing about it.  If I feel like I need a do-over, I’ll just pull out a Reverse card, and no one will notice how I messed up the first time.  And if I don’t feel like doing something at the moment, all I have to do is put down a Skip card and get back to it later.      

Stream of Consciousness: Day 4 (Friend)

My dearest friend:
I think you've chosen me,
Not for my personality,
But for my ever-listening ear
That never fails when you are near.
I only hope that someday you
Will give me the same pleasure too,
For friendship cannot be one-sided.
This is what I have decided.

Stream of Consciousness: Day 3 (I regress)

I’m heading to a networking event today.  I was excited for a while, but now that it's here, I don't feel like going.  Sometimes I just don’t want to be a leader.  It's something I continually work on.  It seems I'll always be a work in progress. 

My default response is to follow – stay back and watch the extroverts do their thing.  Keep to the shadows where it’s safe and nobody can judge me.  There are days when I get to work and feel like: Can’t someone else run the class today?  Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it!  Give ME directions, not the other way around! 

I like to think that I’m getting better at speaking up and saying what’s on my mind, but on days like this my stomach starts doing that topsy-turvy thing, and I know I’ve regressed back to square one.  What a shame…

Stream of Consciousness:Day 2 (When the eyes of a stranger are upon you...)

Don’t look a crazy person in the eyes because they might just look back at you.  Why is that so scary?  Why do we avoid eye contact with strangers?

Eye contact is special.  There’s a reason why it’s one of the first things you try to teach a child with autism: it establishes a connection.  When someone looks you in the eyes, you suddenly exist to them.  You are acknowledged.  That’s why I avoid eye contact with a crazy person: I don’t want them to be aware of me!

Some people, like myself, are uncomfortable making a connection with a stranger, unless there is an attraction there (and even then I get shy and look away).  Whenever I see an attractive man, I’m not satisfied until I see his eyes.  I watch and wait to see if he’ll look my way, just to catch a glimpse.  What am I looking to find there?  I don’t know.  Perhaps a sneakpeek into his soul.

Stream of Consciousness: Day 1

The trek to my job is long and painful.  By the time I get there, my back hurts and I feel exhausted.  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to wake up so early.

Being a preschool teacher is no joke. You have to be ON, all the time.  There is no moment where you can step back and sit at your desk and take a breather. If you do that, one of your children will get hurt, or they’ll get bored and start creating chaos.  I don’t have a desk, anyway.

A thirty minute lunch time doesn’t cut it.  By the time you finish eating, there’s only ten minutes left to your break.  Just enough time to check an email on the one s-l-o-o-o-w computer in our tiny break room, squeezed behind a coworker who’s trying to eat HER lunch. 

I feel like there has to be more to life than this constant struggle to wake up and get to work.  I’m going to invent a teacher robot that can teach for me, while I sit at home and control the robot.  You know, just like the military is making those robots to go fight in the wars.  Hey, if they can do it, why can’t I? 

The Dance Lesson: Part 2 of 2

For four years, I kept my vow of never dancing again, but as I got older, the pressure to dance increased as I was invited to more and more parties.  For the sake of my social life, I gave up my vow and asked a cousin of mine for help.  With much patience, he taught me the basic steps of salsa and merengue. 

            Armed with my primitive dancing skills, I attended my friend’s 16^th birthday party.  I was in my usual spot: sitting on the edge of the sofa, moving slightly to the beat of the music. 

            I was admiring two couples dancing in front of me when a good-looking, muscular guy with short brown hair caught my eye from across the room.  He smiled and I smiled back, recognizing him.  It was Anthony, the 17-year old heart-throb I had met a few weeks ago.  He walked over with confident strides, extending his hand toward me, the universal invitation to dance.

            I took his hand and stood up, attempting to look nonchalant. We found an empty spot on the floor.  Then I looked up to meet his eyes… and instead saw the top of his head.

            My height was the bane of my existence.  Usually the tallest girl in the room, I stood out amongst my vertically-challenged friends.  I knew Anthony was shorter than me, but I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of being this close to him, and it didn’t help that I was wearing heels.

            “Whoa!” he said, his eyebrows lifting in cool surprise.  With a self-conscious smile, I backed up so that I could actually see his face.

            We began to dance: one, two, one, two, one, two.  I tried to focus on my steps.  I had never danced with a guy who wasn’t related to me.  I was suddenly hypersensitive to everything – the feel of his hand on my waist, how large and hard his shoulder was underneath my own hand, how our feet were moving in unison.

             “Relax,” he said in Spanish.  “You’re stiff.”  He massaged my waist a little with his fingers, not realizing that his touch would have the opposite effect on me.  I tried to do as he said and breathed deeply, inhaling the enticing scent of his cologne.

            When the song ended, he lowered his arm but didn’t let go of my hand.  He seemed to be waiting for the next song to start.  It wasn’t long before the music started up again, but I savored every second that his fingers were gently holding mine.  He turned his dark chocolate eyes toward me.  “Do you want to keep dancing?” he asked.

            I nodded, and for the next two hours, he was my dance partner.  I tried hard to loosen up as he taught me the steps.  I tried hard not to look like a fool.

             Before I knew it, it was 11:30pm, and my parents were outside waiting to pick me up.    A bunch of people had just arrived and the party seemed to be getting started.  It didn’t matter that my friend's parents were present as chaperones.  I was fifteen and had to be home at a decent hour.   

            With a wistful smile, I said goodbye to Anthony, kissing him on the cheek.  I rushed to get my coat, trying to be discreet about the fact that I was leaving early.  As I walked out the door, I glanced over my shoulder and saw him with a couple of giggling girls.  I felt a stab of envy as I hurried to my parent’s car and the noise of the party faded behind me.         

            It took many more parties until I was finally able to relax and enjoy the music completely.  My dancing skills developed slowly over the years.  Each dance experience contributed to my growing confidence, melting my insecurities away, and I seized every opportunity I could to practice.  To Anthony, it was just another dance that he most likely doesn’t even remember, but that night signified the end of my greatest fear and the beginning of a life-long passion. 

             

The Dance Contest, Part I of 2

            No one would ever guess that I’m a maniac on the dance floor.  When the music starts, my body can’t seem to control itself, and my eyes search frantically for a potential dance partner.  Once located, I creep casually up to my prey and ask him to dance.  Most men are flattered by my boldness, while most women are horrified.  But I wasn’t always so bold.

            From the time I was a young girl, I wanted to learn how to dance.  I would constantly bug my older brother to teach me how to dance to the House music he blasted on the stereo in his room.  He would try every once in a while, but would give up after a few minutes. I was hopeless.

            One afternoon, I attended my best friend’s 11^th birthday party.  She and I had become friends in Kindergarten, but after that I was put in a Gifted and Talented class.  Because of this, I didn’t know any of the girls at her birthday party.  It didn’t seem to matter, though, because we were having a nice time, shrieking and giggling loudly as preteen girls tend to do.  Until someone suggested we have a dance contest.

            “Yeah! Let’s do it! A dance contest!” the girls shouted excitedly, clapping their hands and jumping about.  I tried to join in the excitement, but was become increasingly nervous as the girls put on MTV and positioned themselves in various lounging poses on the surrounding sofas: some leaning against the wall standing on the seat cushions, others lying upside down with their feet in the air.  I sat down on the edge of one of the sofas, trying to hide my anxiety.

            The birthday girl went first, expertly moving her body in the same way as the girl in the music video.  We all cheered and clapped for her.  When the song was over, she sat down and the next girl shouted “My turn!” and stood up.

            I suddenly missed my own group of friends.  We would probably have started pointing fingers at each other saying “No, you go! No, you! No, I’m going last!” which would eventually lead to the dance contest never happening at all.  But not this group of girls.  They knew how to dance and were proud of it. 

            The rest of the girls did pretty much the same moves as the birthday girl had done.  Finally, it was my turn.  I was the last one to go.  By this time, the T.V. had been turned off and a cassette was playing the music.

            The girls started cheering me on before I even stood up.  “Come on!” You can do it!” My best friend gave me a little shove.

            “Well, okay, but I don’t really know how,” was my disclaimer.  I stood up and they pressed the Play button on the stereo.  I tried not to look at them as I began moving my body awkwardly.  Mostly, I stared at the floor. 

            “Yeah!” the girls shouted.  “Move it!”

            I moved my arms around, trying to keep up with the beat as the stereo blasted “I Like Big Butts and I Cannot Lie!”

            The girls cheered for me. “Whoooo! You go girl!”

            I started feeling a little more confident, and I began moving my feet the way I’d watched my brother do it so many times.  The girls started chanting, “Go Cindy! Go Cindy! Go! Go! Go Cindy!” 

            I looked up and saw that they were smiling widely at me and dancing along on the sofas.  I was ecstatic.  They actually liked my dancing!  By the end of the song, I felt pretty good about myself.

            The next day I was on the phone with my best friend, discussing the party. “I really liked the dance contest,” I said. “Your friends are good dancers. And so are you.”

            “Yeah,” she said matter-of-factly.  “We practice all the time.  You just have to pay attention to the music videos.”

            “I guess so.  I’m glad they liked my dancing though.”

            “Oh...yeah,” my friend said distantly.

            “What?” I asked, slightly alarmed.

            “Oh no, it’s nothing.”

            “Come on. Tell me.”

            “Well,” she began, hesitating. “You know how my friends were cheering for you?  Well… they weren’t really cheering.  They were laughing at you.  They were making fun of you.”

            “Oh.” I felt my face turn red.

            “I told them to stop, and that I wouldn’t be friends with them anymore if they did it again,” she added quickly.

            “Oh…well…who cares? I don’t care.”

            “Good,” she said. “They’re stupid anyway.”

            “Yeah, they’re stupid,” I said.  But I couldn’t help feeling like I had been the stupid one all along.  I ended the conversation quickly, then hung up and cried in shame.
            At that moment, I vowed never to dance in public again.