Rock the Dance Floor

Despite initial enthusiasm about my spontaneous decision to compete this weekend in Charlotte with Yuri, a couple weeks ago, I started to pre-mourn the loss of this weekend.  Waking up early on a Saturday, driving for three hours, and then dancing for two days and driving three hours again?  What was I thinking?  Now, I'm back to excitement again - not only because we are a rockin' partnership, but because I get to wear an epic crimson fringe minidress that is going to rock the casbah.  Or the dance floor, whatever you think the lyrics actually are.

We have spent most evenings of the past 2.5 weeks in the studio or the ballroom tweaking our routines, falling over each other laughing, and practicing our ballroom ninja moves.  I actually can't wait for this competition.

Life is sweet, even though I go through a mini life crisis about twice a week and rant about patriarchal crazies, Glenn Beck and tea partiers on a regular basis.  Today, it was a revelation that I should get a PhD in fine arts, set up an antiques shop with my sister, and teach some outrageously non-technical and beloved subject to college students till I retire in a custom-built, self-designed, solar-powered cabin on the shores of Washington State.  I'd spend summer evenings watching the sun set over the ocean, and winter evenings reading science fiction novels with an array of cats while the snow piles up.

My greatest joy is waking up at the crack of dawn (5:30a), showering, and then eating Mallow Oats and drinking Major Dickason's Blend at the table, bathed in the subtle pastel of early rays, with Caspian.