Freestyling

This is the second year that all my kids have been in school. So it would seem that I have a lot of real quality alone time with myself. But, I'm really not actually alone all that much. You see, I have a maid and a gardener, they are actually one in the same person. And, that person is a man named Mohammed. He's a conservative Muslim man. And I'm not.

And that's great. Except, there are things I like to do in my own house like roller skate and belly dance. And there are some other things that I won't mention. But, did I mention I don't have tv? So, to be culturally sensitive, I have learned to pencil in these events around his absence.

No biggie, right?

But there's more. Have I ever told you that the house next door to ours has been under construction since we moved in. And when a Moroccan house is under construction, the construction workers live at the house. Yes, LIVE there. So, I currently live next to at least 10 men who are currently working on the 2nd floor of the house, which gives them a clear view into my house 24/7. And this, plus the Mohammed factor inhibit my improvisational "me" time significantly.

All I want to do is belly dance people. Can't I culturally sensitively belly dance in my own home? Alone.

Then, one day I realized that there is one part of the house where no one can see in from the construction site next door, besides the bathroom cause it's a little too small. It's a section of my ginormous bedroom. Yeeeessssss. This is awesome!

Except, I don't have a cd player upstairs. But the boys have a little one somewhere. I frantically look for it. But, it's nowhere to be found. So, I bring the laptop upstairs to play my belly dance music on. But, the "good" computer will only play the first 30 seconds of a song before it mysteriously stops. So I got the older crap laptop that won't run off batteries, so I have to find a transformer to plug it into, so the Moroccan voltage input to my American computer doesn't fry it. So then I'm sneaking downstairs through my empty house, which seems especially ridiculous. When I return, the archaic computer does not automatically play the cd when it's put in. So, I search for an inordinately long amount of time to find a program that will play it. Finally, I'm all set to begin when I look out the window directly in front of me that faces my other neighbor. And a worker is on her balcony. Looking directly at me. In my workout clothes and zils. Crap. I've been caught belly dancing in the privacy of my own home. After I close the curtains, out of nowhere the crap ass lap top stops working. After all that set up. Are you kidding me?

All I want to do is dance.

I bought it on Sunday. My own little cd player that I won't let anyone else in my house touch. And that's how I learned free styling is not free. It costs about $20. And I think that's a small price to pay for freedom.



So now I can put on any funky ass oriental song I want and freestyle to my hearts content upstairs in my bedroom with the curtain closed on Tuesdays and Thursdays when Mohammed doesn't work.

Like today.



And I need my dance therapy to combat my perfectionism. Like, it's killing me how flawed this dance is. And why do I make ridiculous faces when I dance? Actually I know the answer. It's because I always make ridiculous faces. Like all the time. And that's why I'm going to post this right now before I change my mind. And create a new blog tab called Therapy. Hoping that I can be freed of my chronic and debilitating perfectionism through the imperfection of free styling. Not to mention my terminal shyness. Cause I'm pretty sure actual therapy would cost more than $20.