fuck healing, lets dance

My first thought when I woke up at 6:30 this morning was, "I feel like dancing". I don't know if it was the remnants of a dream I had been having before I was jolted awake by my alarm or if it was just natural instinct, but all I wanted to do was shake my groove thang. I wanted to sway my hips, hump my rump, booby shake and bite my lower lip in the style of what Jeff fondly refers to as "the white man's overbite". I'm not talking a bar star top of the pops type deal. I'm talking Elvis Costello blaring, hair shaking, pajama clad, and probably a hair brush marauding as a microphone, all in front of my double wide closet door mirror. I'd be throwing down some serious mum moves because I know I dance like your mother and I'm proud of it. What's not to be proud of? If your mum is anything like mine (who can't dance to save her life, but doesn't give a shit), she cut a rug at some of the sickest concerts that will ever grace a stage: Led Zeppelin ("was it three, or four times? My brain has gone foggy."), the first ever Reading Festival ("I hate to admit it, but, I was so stoned the entire weekend, I don't remember a thing. Except that we bought paper sleeping bags.") and Blind Faith ("I saw Ginger Baker do a forty five minute drum solo!") just to name a few. I'd be laying out the snaps like nobody's business and probably some claps and I'd sing along, loud and proud.

If I could have it my way, I'd start every day in this fashion. Or I'd at least like to wake up feeling like that is how I'd like my morning to kick off. It'd be a fool proof set up for a killer day. Or so you'd think. The feeling is only fleeting on a work day though (as I learned this morning) for as soon as your alarm goes of for the second or third time, reality kicks in, and you realise that if you do not get out of bed this instant, you're going to be late for work and that, no, you do not have time to reenact TC's most famous scene from Risky Business before you brush your teeth. You, in fact, do not even have time enough to consider the sub zero temperatures outside your front door, and so without thinking, you wear your Christmas party dress that has been burning a hole in your closet since you first wore it (last week was much too soon for a second sighting) with naught but tights and boots, a sweatshirt and trench type coat to keep you 'warm' on your walk to the office. By the time you arrive, you can see the colour of your legs through your tights; they are crimson. You may as well have been wearing shorts. Your ipod also died a quarter of the way there, as you knew it would, and so you had nothing to keep your ears warm. Cold, colder, COLDEST!! This still does not seem to frost your mood though until an uncalled for, unprofessional freak out by a coworker is thrown your direction and your cheery disposition goes out with the bathwater (not the best analogy as you're at work by this point, so your bathwater has probably been thrown out hours ago...unless you saved it for your room mate, which is old fashioned and gross). That's when you think, "Shit! What a let down. If only I'd woken up this morning feeling like I'd just been dumped...then things could've only gotten better!".

So, on second thought, lets leave those mornings for weekends. The mornings you wake up feeling ambitious, or energised, or with the need to dance. Because, let's face it, when you wake up feeling like you need to dance, you need to dance otherwise you're going to be thinking about it all day, and then there's nowhere to go but down.