In the swing of things

Fear is an excellent motivational tool.
Until that fear consumes you.
And it makes you sick (or you make yourself sick). As in anxious moments where you feel your bile rise; dry heaves in the morning, brought on by just thinking about the task at hand.
I’m anal retentive enough to know how many hours I have until Saturday’s big dance competition. The one for charity.
I’m sick enough now to really, seriously, consider psychotropic pharmaceuticals.
The heavy stuff.

As for the waltz, I am fairly confident I can move my partner around the dance floor with grace and dignity.
The swing? I suck huge donkey dicks.
“You’ve got the waltz,” my partner said. “The swing is easy.”
“It’s easy,” Moonstone said. “That was my favorite, when I took dance.”
The three guys in the competition all agree – swing dancing makes no goddamn sense whatsoever.
I’d rather be doing algebra problems.
It's a man-thing. We’re all over-thinking it.
It is easy. Slow, slow – rock-step. Slow, slow – rock step.
And if I do fuck up, I just have to move forward. That’s what my partner keeps telling me.
This need to do well conflicts with the need for survival.
And I’m making myself sick.

(Just for the record, I’ve got 85 hours to get my shit together.)

1 comments:

Jason said...

"Gimme that Z-O-L-O-F-T. Give me a grip, make me love me. Suckin' em down, i'm happy man. Can feel it inside, makin me smile." - Ween, Zoloft

Dude... I don't envy you at all. The thought of dancing like that in front of people is about the only thing that gives me a similar physical reaction to the one you described. BLAH!