Month: June 2011

The difference between a man and a manuscript…

Very hard.  The answer to yesterday’s question, for those of you still interested, is very hard.  To break through the sarcasm I’ve adopted in order to chronicle this “experiment,” to ignore all of the “empirical data” I’ve collected over the past ten months, to let go of the “perfect” sentence in favor of the imperfections that comprise reality, to remember that I’m dealing with a human being here and not a manuscript… No wonder I spent all afternoon in a funk, guzzling coffee and running through reams of stationary like most people run through toilet paper. But I did it. I wrote to Date #7 and attempted to convey plainly and without embellishment exactly what I am feeling, because as a very wise woman once told me, writing is not about perfect sentences, it’s about communicating. (Okay, I did allow myself a wee bit of embellishment—embellishment is what I do!—but I did start off with something that was very heartfelt and difficult for me to say because as Date #7 himself keeps telling me, “Nothing …

Love, or a Literary Exercise?

Thank God my data plan now supports unlimited texting.  Date #7 and I exchanged 82 messages yesterday.  Eighty two!  Granted, he was sitting on a plane at the time so he was presumably bored and subsequently grateful to receive 50 text messages from Yours Truly, even if the majority of these were written with the emotional maturity of a seventeen year old. It’s not my fault that his letter has undone every last ounce of tranquility I’d managed to cultivate (through a complicated process of denial, distraction and sleep deprivation) since his departure from Philadelphia a week ago. I didn’t ask him to write to me. I didn’t ask him to be all sincere and romantic and nice. I didn’t ask him to make me cry, again, and this time in a good way. Most of all, I didn’t ask him to give me the opportunity to write back, thereby unleashing the fire-breathing, stationary-wielding, Jane Austen-quoting monster that’s been lying dormant ever since my last love letter failed to elicit the desired results. I used …

The Exercise of Reason

It was bound to happen sooner or later—and this, my friends, is why I should probably stop embarking upon pseudo-scientific “experiments.”  Experiments, you see, require procedures, and hypotheses, and control groups and those nerdy little lab coats that no amount of accessorizing can render sexy. Above all, experiments are supposed to be conducted according to the scientific method and even though I can’t remember what exactly the scientific method is, I’m pretty sure it requires the exercise of reason. You know: rational behavior. The very opposite of emotion. The antithesis of love. The very thing that’s eluded me since the beginning of this “experiment” back in August— But suddenly, I’m feeling calm.  Rational, even.  And no, I’m not going to tell you the contents of Date #7’s letter—only that it arrived in the morning post, that it contained two hand-written pages and that I’ve already read it three times.

A Not-So-Happily-Ever-After Ending

It’s over.  The end.  Finito.  I don’t quite know what to do with myself now.  It’s officially summer— I should be going to the beach or working on my tan or scouting out my next bar-of-choice for Wednesday’s Center City Sips Happy Hour (I take Center City Sips very seriously)— but there’s a huge void in my life now.  Plus, I kind of hate the beach. I know I should move on and get on with my life and find something new to occupy my time but after last weekend, I just can’t stop thinking about… … all of the new tap numbers I want to choreograph! (Whoops!  Did you think I was talking about Date #7 up there?  My bad…) Yesterday marked both the end of the Philly Tap Challenge and this year’s student recitals.  Now I have a huge, gaping hole in my life (and a huge, gaping hole in my right foot thanks to the duet I performed on Saturday night, but the less said about that the better). I have a …

The Family that Plays Together…

As every professional dancer knows, cross training is of the utmost importance.  This is why I take advantage of every possible opportunity to play mini golf. Fortunately, I come from a long line of mini golf champions. Landlord: Chauffer: Tech support: Now I know what you’re all thinking.  You’re thinking “Mini golf is not a sport!  Mini golf doesn’t count as cross training!” Well, I beg to differ. Mini golf requires dexterity: Balance: It works out those upper body muscles if you do it correctly: And if you manage to sneak up the “Rocky steps” while the attendants not looking, you can get a great cardio workout too. Last but not least, mini golf is strenuous.  And strenuous activities require proper hydration: Think that’s just Gatorade in those bottles?  Think again :) PS: If you liked this post, you’ll love this one.  

Just About Tapped Out…

This morning I spent a good three minutes standing in the bathroom, staring at my pink Schick Quattro razor trying to remember how to change the blade.  Not because I just got this razor, mind you (I’ve had it since my senior year of college when then marking folks over at Schick Quattro decided to start giving away razors for FREE on campuses across America, the only catch being that you then had to then buy the replacement blades yourself…) but because today is the third and final day of the Philly Tap Challenge. This means I’ve spent the past 48 hours shuffling between master classes, shows, panel discussions, dress rehearsals, band rehearsals and tech rehearsals (and no, before you ask, these rehearsals aren’t even for the same shows or even in the same city, let alone the same state but this is the life I have somehow fallen into and this is the life that just about every tap dancer leads). As a result, my brain is fried, hence my inability to remember how …

Help! I’m Dating Myself…

He wants to write to me.  Like a proper, hand-written letter— envelope and all.  Evidently I wasn’t the only one feeling completely mashed up inside after our weekend together; he tells me he needs to get it all down on paper… and being the hopeless romantic that I am, I’m already salivating. And here we stumble upon the greatest, well… stumbling block between me and Date #7.  It’s not that I got all insecure about our “relationship” on Sunday night and found myself literally pushing him away.  It’s not that my life is here, on this side of the state, and his life is there, on the other.  It’s not that he reminds me of my first boyfriend. It’s that he reminds me of myself. I used to think I’d like to date a male version of myself.  (Egocentric much?)  You know: someone who’s creative, artistic, mildly intelligent, spiritual-but-not-religious (that’s official Match.com parlance for you there), politically left-of-center and “deep” enough to indulge my occasional philosophizing. Well, I’ve met that person.  That person is Date …

“Kissed, and Often, by Someone Who Knows How”

Let’s talk about kissing for a moment, shall we?  As you might have noticed by now, I’m hesitant to say too much about my weekend with Date #7, partially because I know if I do I’ll end up with a terrible case of “analysis paralysis” but also because Date #7’s been known to stop by on occasion. Nonetheless, I shall endeavor to drop a few hints, which you can piece together on your own and draw your own confusions. (And when you do that, would you mind sharing them with me?  Because I’m still confused as hell.  Thanks.) So.  Back to kissing. I can count on one hand the number of proper, Hollywood style kisses I’ve experienced in my day.  Half the time I don’t even bother to my close my eyes and I’m too concerned about who might be watching, what the gentleman in question is thinking, where we’re going to go for dinner and whether or not I have any chocolate in my purse to actually enjoy myself. That’s not to say that …