Belly dance Intermediate

7:30 class is in session. Slight panic thinking my class might be this one. No, confirming the schedule book mine's 8:30. Silence ensues until a nine year old boy whose mother and sister are in class asks me if I'd like a balloon. An origami balloon. He tells me about his affinity for building model rockets (from scratch), last summer's church camp, spending summers with Grandma and Grandpa. He makes two more Origami balloons for each of my kids (the ones that won't eat them) and recommends the Rice, Rocks and Minerals museum if I am the sort interested in Geology. Last time he was there he bought two geodes for $75. Don't miss the huge meteorite. Through the window concentration and isolation peers in the mirror. A woman with countless bone spurs and arthritis of the foot and only a quarter of life left in this poor foot joins me in the hall not aware "belly" dance would have so much to do with the foot. The assistant checks on her like a friendly cheerleader suggesting certain dance shoes or braces for support but with tears welling the woman feels belly dancing isn't the choice for her body. I know the feeling in an all different way. Carla, the senior teacher gives her hope saying the mind will get it if you merely stand and listen to the music and learn it internally. Carla looks like a truck driver maven in black, a dangling scarf from her burgundy tinted spiral permed hair adds to my first impression that she tells fortunes at her day job. The low cut V-neck black spandex top hugs a beer belly, her midriff adorned with turquoise blossoms, gold sequined stems, gold tassels and bead-work. The origami creator assured me I would like the teacher. She's nice.
I found myself in a commonly found place: out of place- with my modest workout attire, serious face and awkward steps only informed by ballet intellect and free spirit disobedience around the floor trying to play off the very noticeable fact that I didn't already know Tiffany who danced last Thursday at Marrakesh or that I didn't know the 14 year old Asian girl's mother who wasn't in class today. But her foot is doing much better. The results of "Our Girls" at the Tacoma competition alluded me. The alternative section...Adi rah took the cake...there's something about our girls and mastery of the alternative...tee hee hee. Surrounding every woman had some sort of costume addition proving she was official as a belly dancer. The loose skinned abdominal woman's orange beaded sash sagged until she began her shimmy. A repositioning occurs as she tucks the skin into her spine bringing out a beauty I'd overlooked. Maybe all women folk ought walk around town hip circling and body cameling. A whole new benchmark aesthetic arises. The upbeat drum tempo drives the Shakire with the 6/8 tempo cuing a shoulder roll followed by staccato isolation's popping through the body like popcorn. "Time to get out your veils ladies." Not having nor even knowing what a veil is I paw around feigning to take the pause to practice my right hip isolations with a careful lift of my heel. A woman called my bluff and asked if I needed to borrow a veil. The silk scape in melted butter yellow convinced me for a moment even I was official in the calling of belly dancer. Three steps and letting go of the veil, catching it taking two more steps so the veil's end is underfoot, lifting it coyly to the face to give the appearance of genie in a bottle, twisting and twirling-whether there was a wrong or right less noticeable with this luxurious prop. Agra bah, there is hope yet.