Dancing

Long day; lots of laundry and an impromptu dinner party with not only my sister but also my brother and his wife.  They take work.

But I got the Sansa working – I first learned about recovery mode on Sigmatel chips maybe three years ago with a then cheap 64Mb Memorex player which cost more than the new 2Gb one– and so I drifted with the music.

My choice on there is mostly chantuses, women with smoky voices singing jazz standards, women like Cheryl Bentyne, Lannie Garrett and Jessica Molaskey, interspersed with quite a bit of Beegie Adair and just a little bit of Lester Lanin.  These are the singers I want right in my head

But as I drifted, I imagined what I was wearing as I danced to this music.  Cuban heels with a t-strap,  or a slinky rayon dress, or pearls that rubbed against his wool jacket.  Sometimes I just knew the 1940s shoulder pads were perfect, or in the case of Camille DeVore, well, I was on stage with a beaded gown.

My mother bought me a sweater and skirt at Coldwater Creek outlet.  I want to encourage this affirmation, but it is hard; I can’t really be present with the grunt work that needs to be done and while my sister loves their stuff, I’m not really a Coldwater Creek girl.  I know what I look like, just like I know that the skirts and wrap my mother bought my sister look like her, but my mother has no idea what I look like, who I am.

But alone, my ears stuffed with silicone and wired to a DAP, well, something is present for me, something that hasn’t be present in the beauty days of my life, and probably won’t be present in reality.

But there, in the night, dancing, well, it was nice.

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