March 13, not a Friday, 2001

Dancing Hell

I know why I hate dancing so much. It has nothing to do with my lack of coordination and/or rhythm; it is not my loathing for perspiration. It is because I cannot be good at it. I am a flailing, clumsy fool onstage, self-concious about my graceless-ness in front of my boyfriend; wishing my motions could be fluent and sexy and knowing they are not, never will be. The only attractiveness I may ever attain will be "cute." Not beautiful or alluring or mysterious. I'm like a perpetual fourteen-year-old, it's not that I'm ugly, it's that I'm immature.

I dont' want him to see me there, out of my element, exposed, uncultured, uncoordinated. Whatever strength I build up is lost by the first blush that rises to my cheeks after a mistake. After so many mistakes.

Lord, how morose am I. And I lost the left lucky sock, too. Now what am I going to do?