The Idiot Who Tried to Give Up Coffee

I have several food habits that fall on the scale between "should only be enjoyed in moderation" and "Girrrlll, do you value your teeth/health/body at all?"

My nightly G&T or glass of wine was totally under control.  One and done. 

Gummy bears, Twizzlers, and jelly beans, however, were a huge problem.  

A carton? A barrel?  A boxcar full? I'd eat every sugary little morsel, no problem.

In the morning, I needed a small dose of coffee, about a half cup.  It was less about the taste than that little burst of energy and avoiding an afternoon headache resembling having been slammed in the head with a skillet.

Several cups a day?  A venti anything? Blech! Never.  

Truth be told, I hated having to drink coffee. It was a habit I wanted to drop like a vomiting toddler. 

And I'd get my chance to try.  

I had my bajillionth root canal the Friday before Father's Day.  I don't fear them as much as I once did. Parenthood has taken me to the point where I dig things like root canals and waxing.  Being stabbed with needles and having hair ripped out of my skin can be way less painful than wrangling preschool-aged children. 

At this point, who cares what's happening if you get to lie down?

After the procedure I felt fine. 

The next day, Saturday, I had a dull toothache. 

And on Sunday I woke up with a bong-bong-bong THROBBING pain in my just-worked-on tooth.  Couldn't go more than two hours without at least two Advil.  And like a martyr moron, I didn't call the doctor because I didn't want to bother him on Father's Day!

Monday it began to swell and still hurt like hell.  I went back to the endodontist, who prescribed an antibiotic and some sweet, merciful Vicodin.  I was told the antibiotic would reduce the swelling in 24 hours or so.  

By Tuesday it looked like this:

A face to scare your own kids.

"Mommy, I don't like your face," my son said. I wanted a mask or a bag on my head. I returned to the endodontist.  We discussed draining it, which would hurt even more, and would not necessarily stop my cheek from looking like I was auditioning for the all-black production of The Elephant Man.

Anything in my mouth felt awful. I was barely eating, and was surviving on water.  At least I lost a few pounds.  As for the coffee headache, it came, conspired with the pain in my face to make me long for death, and then disappeared.  

And by Wednesday, when the swelling was by no means gone, but wasn't going to make people cross the street to avoid me, I was off coffee.

For two weeks I survived with a sip here and there, maybe a black tea, maybe a few ounces of diet coke.

On several days not a single caffeinated beverage crossed my lips.  

Then I hit the wall.

I could barely get out of bed.  I didn't want to dance.  I didn't want to write.  Like an angsty teen, I was manufacturing slights, digs and issues with friends.  I hated my life -- every choice I had made up until this point had led me to the existential equivalent of a life in a Civil War prison camp latrine.  

I cried on the phone with my bestie in New York.  I screamed at my children.  I fought with the Hubs.  I got all assy on the phone with customer service reps. 

And then it hit me.

I wasn't depressed.  I didn't need a lobotomy.  And I wasn't having a mid-life crisis at almost 41.  

I just needed some effing coffee.  I was suffering from severe coffee withdrawal.

I made some and felt better within minutes.  

Like that 80s commercial, I am a coffee achiever.  

And never in my life will I attempt such a stunt again.  

Not Another Gunman

I had been talking -- explaining everything -- way too much.  We only had twenty minutes left of class, and we were just on tendus - basic foot exercises.  I desperately needed to get these kids moving -- get them across the floor.

A siren-style light on the ceiling began flashing, spraying its rays around around the room.  It was the yellow emergency notification system.  Our brows furrowed, my students and I looked at each other in confusion. 

Was it a fire drill?  It was 30 degrees outside and snowing.  We were in leotards and tights or leggings. Some of us in booty shorts.  We'd freeze our asses off.  I stepped into the hallway to check.  

No one.  

I re-entered the studio and shrugged.  "Let's go acro...,"

The emergency light flashed again. Then an announcement.  "This is the emergency notification system.  There is a violent intruder on the premises." *

Everyone gasped.  Oh God.

Then our lights shut off.  Our only light was what came from the hallway and underneath the doors.  The studio had no windows.

Was this really happening?  Our studio doors, equipped with keypads, locked automatically when closed.  I ran to shut them.  Then to the piano.  "Move it in front of the doors!"  I shouted.  Using all our weight, Nick** (my percussionist), Bee (a student), and I shoved the piano across the room to barricade the back door before slumping down behind it.  

Convinced that some armed student -- some madman -- was overtaking the building, every noise, every shadow in hallway the sent a wave of terror through us.  

How was I -- the woman who froze and panicked in the face of danger -- the adult in charge?  

"Oh my God, Oh my God," I said over and over again.  I was panting and my heart was pounding.  Although we were acquaintances, our relationships no more than teacher/student and accompanist/teacher, collective fear removed all polite physical boundaries.  We huddled together for comfort. 

Some of my students sobbed softly.  Was this it?  Was I going to see my children tonight? My husband? Would my children grow up without a mother?  

Hunker down.  Calm down.  I stared at the exit sign,  as if the word itself could deliver me.

What was happening in our country?  Columbine, Aurora, Arizona, Newtown. Countless others, and now in the heart of downtown Chicago?  What happened to our country? 

And for the first time, I felt a visceral need to have a gun, to have something with which to protect myself and my students.  Rationally and intellectually I knew that guns only lead to more violence and more killing.  

I was not about to change my stance on the gun issue, but for the first time, I somewhat understood the other side.  In addition to everything else, those thoughts pained me.  

Voices in the hall.  Men speaking in lighthearted tones.  Maybe they were securing the building, and making sure everything was okay? 

A stairwell door closed. Then silence.

"Should I call the police?"  Nick whispered. 

"Why? Wouldn't they already know?"  I whispered back.

He picked up his phone and dialed.  "Hello, I'm calling from . . ."

"Shhhhhhhhh!" everyone hissed.  

Nick shrugged and lowered his voice.  

I could hear both ends of the conversation.  Apparently, they had no clue what he was talking about.  

Bee, the student huddled next to me, began checking her phone for texts from the college and news sites. Nothing.  My phone was across the room in my bag.  I was not about to separate from the pack and risk making myself into a target.

Whom could I call? Oh, God! I didn't know anyone's phone number.  I would have to learn people's numbers. Effing technology - I knew my best friend's number from when I was seven and now couldn't tell you my husband's line at work?!  My Hubs didn't always answer his cell at work.  I had my student text a girlfriend, one who kept her phone close, to have her get word to J.  

The studio cross the hall burst into song.  Then they started tap dancing -- a full blown gospel/musical theater number.  What the fuck was going on?  Were these people so dedicated to their art that they literally wanted to meet their maker a singin' and a dancin'?

"Call Henry!"  I whispered to the percussionist. Henry was the receptionist at the main dance center.  He was the eyes and ears of the place.  If someone farted on the third floor, Henry would know about it.  

"What?  A false alarm?" Nick said.  Just then we heard voices and footsteps in the hall - the sound of the changeover between class.  Someone knocked on the door.  It all made sense.  I ran to open it. It was Paul, our department sound engineer, who had been sent over to deliver us.  

Paul described the short lived chaos at our main building, and the SWAT team in front of the building just south of us.  He also let us know that while we were fearing for our lives, it was business as usual in the lobby, one floor below.  

Oh, and by the way, did we know that the college would be closing at 3 pm because of snow?

So that's all it was.  A misplaced signal.  We cried and hugged each other.  Some of us laughed hysterically -- the raucous laughter of people who had been the butt of a practical joke, people whose brief trip to hell was the stuff of black comedy.  

I feel unfathomably lucky that my terror was based nothing more than an incorrect button being pushed. 

That I was not the adult in charge in the face of unspeakable insanity and cruelty.  

That I am not a statistic.   

That my ordeal earned me no more than 20 minutes of sheer terror, and a captivating anecdote.

That I got to go home that night and hug my children and my husband.  To continue being a daughter, a teacher and friend.  To keep dancing. 

I am so fortunate. 

Today it happened again.  Another mass shooting, this time at a Navy Yard in our nation's capital.  More innocent lives snuffed out by madness and guns.  More people whose last moments were filled with terror.  Who never got to say goodbye to children, spouses, partners and relatives.  

Which means it is my great misfortune to live in a nation where this kind of thing is becoming commonplace.  It happens again. 

And again. 

And again. 

And again. 

And we do nothing about it.  

*The post above describes events that happened on March 5, 2013.   

**All names have been changed.

Slut Shamer Shaming

Everyone's in a tizzy about it right now.  Again.

Slut-shaming.  

First it was Miley's VMA tragic travesty with its twerking gone wrong, sleaze, and mocking black women. In the last couple of weeks, Miley has probably received more letters than Santa Claus. 

Then, a Mrs. Hall went viral, scolding those lascivious girls who post scantily-clad photos of themselves on social media.  How dare those harlots flaunt their wares in front of her wholesome sons! Sons who, were photographed in the same shirtless, smiling and seductive poses she condemned.

Her detractors, rightfully so, unleashed hell upon her. 

Enter the second wave.

Slut-shamer-shaming. 

Women who disapprove of teenage girls posting photos of themselves braless must be fearful ladies, threatened by a teenager’s sexuality. 

Wrong.  Mrs. Hall’s post was outrageous, but the above ain’t necessarily so.

I don’t fear a young girl’s sexuality. I just think broadcasting it to the world online is a horrible idea.

I’m a dancer and dance teacher.  I have taught hundreds of teenagers and choreographed scores of hot little numbers on them.  It’s my job to help dancers find and develop their artistry and individuality, in which sexuality plays a definite part.  Dancing without sensuality, without sexuality, is flat and boring – like watching paint dry.   

What I fear is that girls are getting the idea that being dazzlingly, traffic-stoppingly sexy is the only thing that matters. I hate that secretaries of state, presidential candidates, professors, artists, heads of corporations – brilliant women are praised or dismissed based on their physiques and hairstyles. 

It enrages me.

Surely there are some badass-I-don’t-take-shit-from-guys-I-post-these-photos-‘cuz-I-like-to girls out there. I'm willing to bet however, that many girls show these photos because they think Maxim-style photos are the best way, if not the only way, to get a man’s stamp of approval.

Their brains don’t matter.  Their strength doesn’t matter.  Their power is a function of how sexy, how available, they can make themselves for a man.

I never want my daughter to believe that. 

A woman's relationship to her sexuality is a journey; my daughter will have to find her own way.  As much as I want her to have fun with her appearance, I want her to know that she never has to be untrue to herself – to make herself into something she’s not – for any man. 

Ever.

I want her to feel free enough to discover and experiment, while knowing that I'm there to talk. If she doesn't want my wisdom, I hope she has another trusted and older woman friend there for her. 

I want her to be free – it’s her body after all. But I want her to be smart too.

We Gen Xers are getting older.  We are now shaking our heads saying, "These kids today!" and longing for the good ol’ days of “Darling Nikki” and “Like a Virgin”. We think the Millennials are the way they are because they were never told "no".  Everybody told them everything was okay.

Let's be parents. Let's guide our children.  Let's help them make good choices.  Let’s show them how to be responsible citizens, drivers, friends, students, employees, and Internet users.

Let’s be there for them when things don’t go their way. 

But also let’s tell them when they are wrong.  Let’s tell them when we think their choice is the b word.  Bad.  Without shaming. Through dialogue.

Shaming conjures up images of scarlet letters and being pilloried in the town square. A humiliating form of punishment that now seems archaic and cruel. 

Not something we want to return to.  

A healthy sense of shame, however, is an integral part of one’s sense of self-worth. Our girls can enjoy their bodies and clothes and sex while staying true to themselves.  

A sense of dignity and sexiness are not mutually exclusive, and where they intersect depends on the individual. One woman's act of confidence and defiance is another's act of self-betrayal.

 

And without question, it's not "asking for it".  A woman can and should be able to post sexy photographs of herself online if she so chooses.   

But why does she need to?

September Finding the Funny

A Dance Teacher's Labor Day Confession

My name is Keesha and it has been three months since I last took a dance class.  

I am about to start teaching tomorrow and I am a nervous wreck.  Do I remember how to teach?  To move?  What does alignment mean?  Being on your leg?  I mean, who do I think I am, standing at the front of a mirrored studio and asking people to DANCE?  

Crap.

This happens every year.  I've been teaching for almost twenty years, and every year at this time leading a class of students feels like planning to sail to Spain in a bucket.   

Students aren't the only ones who get the back-to-school jitters.  I remember thinking that teachers waltzed in the room with a master plan, feeling in command of everything and everyone in the room.  

Maybe some do.  But I'll speak for myself.  I'm anxious.  In fact, I'm kind of a mess. I've spent 95% percent of the summer playing butler/waitress/valet/nursemaid/teacher/chauffer/agent to my children.  It was like being a marine sergeant demoted to herding cats, but most days we could schedule the day as we wished.  

Lunch at 1?  Nap at 3?  Bed at 9:30/10?  Yes. Yes. And yes.  

Starting tomorrow the curtain goes down on that.  Back to school and activities for them and back to work for me.  Our machine goes from dormant to high-production. 

And after spending the summer in mommy mode, I'm worried about my transition back to dance teacher.  To planning classes, and choosing music, and leading a room.  To helping students become the best dancer they can be.

I want to have a great year.  I want my students to have, if not a transformative experience,  a year to remember fondly (at least most of them, I know I can't please 'em all).  I want us to learn from each other, to challenge each other and come out not just better dancers, but better people.  

Perhaps, I set the barre, pun very much intended, too high.

But still.

I want to have a classroom that rewards excellence while encouraging students to risk failure.

I want to be firm and direct and sometimes brutally honest, while being compassionate and empathetic.

I hope to seek out opportunities to get to know my students, not only as dancing bodies, but as multi-faceted human beings.

I hope to build students who are the dancer I wish I had been at 18, 19 or even 25.  Students who have been saved from the mistakes I've made without my devolving into a zealot continually on the lecture circuit. 

I hope to keep up the enthusiasm of Week 1 even in the doldrums of Week 11.  To stay positive in Week 4 when the novelty has worn off and the question "Will the real students please stand up?" has been answered loud and clear.  

I hope to keep myself motivated and inspired, while realizing that every day will not be brilliant.

I want to plan great classes, but to also have the power of spontaneity to redirect the class based on what students need on that day, in that moment.  

And of course, I need to be able to have time for friends and family.  To devote energy to being a great mom and wife.  To stay on top of my writing commitments.  To stay true to the things besides teaching that I need in my life.  And, of course, to take time for myself.  

To those of us on an academic calendar, Labor Day presents the greatest opportunity to throw everything out and start all over again. In January the academic year is already underway.  

To me, Labor Day is the real New Year.   And therefore, it is far more stressful.  

But in a couple of weeks there will be a new normal.  Lofty goals will interweave with old habits as well as necessity.  There will be victories and challenges. Days when I feel BAD ASS and days where I have my ass handed to me.  And many days in between.  

But, living in the moment, trying to enjoy the present, not focusing on perfection, both in the studio and in the world -- that's the real work.  

Simple, but not easy.