Fat Dancing

Evening all. Lovely day.

I say lovely. In reality I have had a rather strange day, involving a bizarre mood change from enthusiastically bothering to do my hair and stuff this morning, to tired and disinterested during Cunningham this afternoon, and then, circumspectly, to finding everything hilarious during rehearsals, which is neither practical nor whimsically entertaining (as one might hope it is) when negotiating jumps and a shiny floor. That said, it was a pretty constructive rehearsal, and with three weeks to go have learnt all the dances we need to. That also said, they do need polishing somewhat... and also we need to learn to actually sing the songs we dance to.

Considering I haven't even had any essay questions yet, and so no actual work other than reading to do, I feel I've been insanely busy recently. This might have something to do with the approximate 16 hours of dance I have done over each of the past two weeks, although until Doodle pointed out that most normal people don't even do one, I thought this was a pretty poor approach to my fitness. Which brings me in a fairly shit and un-thought-out manner to a point relatively close to my heart: this idea that dancers are fitness and food obsessives.

Well. I am a food obsessive. I love food. I can't think of a better evening that spending it in a nice restaurant with good company and fantastic food (and an unlimited budget ideally). And I'm also slightly obsessed with my fitness in a weird way; I think I'm not as fit as I should be but then when it comes down to it I hate the gym and therefore do not go. And these thoughts seem to be at the forefront of my mind a lot of the time. But what can you do. Anyway, I digress as usual. People seem to think that ballerinas eat nothing but lettuce and follow a punishing fitness regime in order to gain the slender body required for the Royal Ballet Company. In reality, this is not the case. The girls who stop eating at ballet school never make it to the companies because they can't dance properly, because they don't have a nutritious diet - you can't build the muscle to hold yourself on pointe without eating some protein. Darcey Bussell couldn't work the magic she does if she starved herself. And that's another thing - ballet is the only form of dance or fitness training that provides you with lean muscle whilst getting rid of all body fat; the skinny body is a result of the training rather than a requirement before you start. Of course you have to eat healthily and train an insane amount, but that's what happens at a dance company - you're job is to dance for an audience, and therefore you have to practise. It's no different to doctor training and being on call at the hospital 24/7 (although in this case you're inflicting pain on yourself rather than on other people - standing on your toes is most definitely not the graceful sylph-like elegance it looks).

Anyway as you might have guessed, I feel particularly strongly about this subject, which is surprising considering I'm one of those dancers who would be looked at like a fat alien if I ever entered the Royal Ballet School because I have nicely placed areas of podge around my body (i.e. a normal one). But I just hate the stigma against dancers when we're all actually very different. Much like most things in life when you think about it.

I haven't had to dance since yesterday and don't need to until Sunday morning... bliss. I am going out for lunch on Saturday and will definitely be eating everything in sight, alongside quaffing some wine and then probably some saturated fat infused stodge on the train home. And I will love it.

Cracked Ice

Well, I must apologise for being thoroughly rubbish and not posting anything for about forty years. I have an excuse for last week, but that's it. I am a bad person.

So I guess everyone's excited about snow and that. I must say it's beginning to grate on me a little bit, but that's my fault really, for not finishing uni work and therefore feeling too guilty to go out and play in it. We got home from holiday (eventually) on the 6th to find our lane beautifully snowploughed but with the drive under a foot of snow and the SmartCar nearly buried (ha, good). I've been having trouble adjusting to these ridiculous temperatures after a week of steady 30C heat, enjoyably cold showers, Caribbean steel bands and watermelon consumption. I'm not down with the mercury being permanently below freezing, having lukewarm showers because anything hotter feels boiling on my freezing cold hands and toes and eating massively stodgy hot food like chilli (although I do love chilli). Best thing about this weather is the view out my window, which looks out across to the Malverns and is amazing, and the fact I get to wear the best in winter fashions; altogether much easier to do well than summer clothes that require flat stomachs, a tan, and perky breasts that don't need a bra. Also, they cover up the ridiculous tan lines I acquired by falling asleep on a sunlounger during the hottest part of the day on the first full day of being there. Sometimes I think I need sending into the corner wearing a dunce hat.

So - the Christmas season. A week of drink-fuelled hilarity and riot, followed by a couple of days of sobering family gatherings (sobering due to the intense insanity of my family, and kept in check by redressing the sobering balance with Stowfords), followed by a completely - no joke - sober week in the Caribbean, followed by a week of minus temperatures and snow, which brings us to now. I tell you what, New Year's Eve on a beach drinking fruit punch is a bit weird. Like, it isn't cold. I wasn't drunk. I didn't know any of the people I was with apart from the three I was related to. I got up at 9am the following morning and had an alfresco swim followed by a civilised breakfast. And I think I could quite happily spend every New Year's Eve like that. When I found out I was going to be away over that particular night I felt an overhwelming sense of relief that I wouldn't have to make a decision about what to do and where to go to celebrate. At least on Christmas Day everyone knows you're going to be with your family, but on New Year's Eve there's all of a sudden about 4 different places you could be, with 4 slightly different sets of people, but the few people you would like to spend it with are scattered throughout those 4 events... Oh it is stressful. And considering you normally wake up with your head on the loo seat and no recollection of the night anyway, it hardly matters. Next year I intend to be in some far-flung country (a hot one), wearing flip flops, a sarong and dreadlocks, with my travelling buddy as the only person I need to worry about being in the same place as. I feel this will help me on my way to becoming a chilled out and entirely stress-free hippy; a necessary measure before I enter the horrors of career-driven job hopping.

As usual, I have rambled off the beaten track and onto a cunningly hidden bit of frozen pond - similar, in a way, to something I did whilst walking the dog in 8 inches of snow earlier. But, again like earlier, the ice didn't break, it just cracked, and I continued along on my way unscathed... See you anon.