Show us your... pearly whites

Breast obsessed

I swear my teeth have nothing to do with my dancing.  So why do more people want to dance with me when I'm smiling?

My dancing is no better, but the happier I look the more people ask me on to the floor.  Even messing up seems more permissible with a grin.

Some leads make me smile just for the joy of dancing with them.  Some are exciting and make me bounce.  I smile when they help with things I'm working on, or I help them perfect a move.  Some leads lead things I've never done before (and some I never want to do again).

The lovely lead at the weekend?  He lead me and my bra strap pinged off.  3 times.  Mortifying!  Well at least one of us was smiling!

Staying ‘ABreast’ Of The Problem

Sorry I've been silent, I got a bit stuck in life and dancing, I've had a swinging issue.

For 5 months I've been presenting my breasts to random men.

Now, I'm a feminist with a ‘need no cock to make me rock’ attitude (if this makes it through your spam filters it will be a miracle), but every time I performed a 'swing out' I finished sideways, ramming my chest into a poor lead’s arm, apologising frantically and reassuring Lovely Lindy Lad of my undying devotion.

The video makes it look simple, but when it gets fast it should look like this (see 30 seconds in, you might want to put down your tea first).

It was excruciatingly embarrassing.  When a swing out began I’d dig my heels in like a puppy at the vets and look imploringly at my victim partner.  It loomed terrifyingly in every dance.

Then came some fab teachers
Joe and Robyn teach swing outs like confetti.  Moving from closed to open, one scrap.   A class exploring open to closed, another.  Then a scrap of footwork and using it in a Lindy circle.  Then adding the moves from previous sessions until the confetti looks pretty.  Then  putting in a sequence.  Then I’m… I’m… I’m doing it!!  So I fall to pieces.  Because

I Can’t Do A Swing Out..  Except I just did.

How many things does my brain tell me I 'can't do', even when my body knows better?  So this weekend I'm taking on the world; or at least going swing dancing!

PS Shout out to peeps at London Lindy Exchange, take good care of my Lovely Lindy Lad!

Cool as a Cucumber [Off Topic]

(c) Glenn Pebley at sxc 

It never ceases to amaze me, the new found ways I find to torture myself.  In a frenzy of post dance class hunger I went shopping.  Cucumbers were on 2 for 1, and the inevitable happened.  1 woman, two cucumbers, and no you can stop those dodgy suggestions right there.

Since then I have cucumbered everything.  Cucumber sandwiches, cucumber salad, cucumber side, a nice cup of tea and some cucumber.  I am cucumbered out. 

I wouldn’t dream of doing this to somebody else, but something inside me says ‘I bought it so I’ll eat it’.  Any sane voice would say ‘one of them was free; it’s ok to chuck some’.

I’ve no idea where my over-crazed ‘waste not, want not’ attitude originates.  I have a comfortably off, normal(ish) family and had a normal(ish) upbringing.  Is it a post-war mother, born in the time of rationing?  Is it a family history of abject poverty?  Is it simply yet another way my mind finds to punish me for the ‘sin’ of mental illness?  To be frank, this much cucumber is enough to make anyone mad.

Cucumber cake anyone?

Pzazz!

Couresty of Sonja Mildner at sxc.hu

USA types claim that Lindy Hop is done by the shy, the geeky and the socially awkward.  People like me, my fellow freaks.  I wish I was American.  In England, it’s done by cool cats.  Cats so hot they’re cool.  The kind of person I'd like to pretend to be, but when it get social it all gets messy.

Beginner dances are palatable, with an eye on health and safety people check your moves before they swing you out.  Success is measured by you both being upright by the end of the dance, my ability to smile whilst terrified is duly admired.

Grown up nights are a different matter.  They are beautiful, seriously gorgeous.  Perfectly vintage couples swishing in rhythm, with barely a kicked ankle in vision.  Faced with such elegance I retreat into a corner, stammering and blushing, eyes wide and round.

I fear being asked to dance there, it’s far too lovely for the trippy toed likes of me, but worse than that, the experienced leads respect your creativity.

Please don't respect me! 

We're bobbling along and suddenly there’s a gap in the lead.  I flail.  Is it a break?  Did I miss a cue?  Speed through a turn?  Is he so disgusted he’s about to walk off the dance floor and reveal me for the multi-limbed disaster that I am? 

No…  This is my bit.  I’m supposed to add a twiddle or flourish of my own flavour, which my lead will incorporate and use as inspiration for the next phrase.

It’s the physical equivalent of saying ‘show me what you’ve got’.

We’re screwed.

I left my pzazz at home tonight.

Why on earth would be be interested in me?

He seems to think I’ve got something to give, that I have anything of interest to add to this dance conversation.  I try my best, but Lindy Hop aint coming easy.  I’m at that awkward point where beginner classes are covering the same material, but intermediate classes need a whole host of things I can’t quite manage yet.

The best place for me to practise is the social dancefloor, but my newfound depression is causing crippling social anxiety and I dare not ask anyone to dance, especially not when I come with the caveat "I’m sorry, I forgot my pzazz today, can we just use yours?".  

I'm doomed.  Nearly as much as my partners are.

PS I’m off to a ‘beginner improver’ class tonight and a workshop at the end of the month, hopefully I can crack those swing outs!

Mental health advice: warm up before you dance

I’m not at work.  My old injury was nagging me.  Depression.  And as usual, I have to compare life with dancing.

No, that's not me! (c) Wendy Cain

When you dance you prepare your body.  You put in calories, wear special clothes or shoes to keep warm and help your feet, you ensure the floor is sprung so it doesn't jar your joints.  You do everything to take care of your body.  

When you work in a stressful job you need to do the same.  Make sure you get a lunch break, socialise to keep you buoyed up, ensure that the environment you’re working in is supportive. 

Sometimes injury still happens.  Performing a challenging move again and again can cause strain and pain.  Working too hard for too long can cause a breakdown.

I haz an owwie 

If I had a dance injury, I’d go gently.  Do the easy moves before trying the harder ones.  I’d stop or ease off if it hurt.  I’d build up slowly.  Nobody would expect me to have a full range of movement, or be able to perform my usual moves.

The real world isn’t like that.

Depression doesn't heal by the clock

Returning to work after my depression, it was assumed that I’d be my super-woman self.  It was a shock that I wasn't.  A timetable for my recovery was set, but healing takes time, not clocks.  Forcing an injury will make recovery will take longer, whether you’re dancing with your feet or your brain.

Before my depression I didn't have time to dance.  I worked days and evenings and weekends.  Over the years I grew more and more isolated.  Partners, family, social events all came second to my work.  

When I began to recover from my breakdown, my first thought was my work, my biggest guilt was that I wasn't there, now it's times I wasn't there for those I love.

Before I could recover I had to realise that I am a human being in my own right, regardless of work.

By the time I went back I was a different person...  

I’d realised I'm funny, or rather that sharing my insecurities makes people laugh (because they feel them too?).  I am usually happy. Despite my username I bubble over with banter and bouncy feelings most of the time, but I was so run down that I didn't have the energy.  I like to write, and with over a thousand visitors since I set up this blog in mid-January, a few people like reading it (or my stalker is being more obsessive than usual).

I realised that I am important in my life, and no matter how worthy the cause, or how needed the work, being a healthy, fulfilled person has to come first, or I can’t do anything else well.

So today I'm not at the office, I'm warming up and wondering how to cushion my injury whilst I return to dancing the work fandango.

D Dancer, You Shall Go To The Ball!

With thanks to Svilen 

A charity ball, with the swing scene in their glittering vintage finest.  Music, lights, cabaret and dancing.  Sounds amazing, doesn't it?  I'm excited, but having a Cinderella moment (and feeling like a pumpkin). 

Style?  Ersatz?  Or Historical Accuracy?  

I'm neither vintage nor a lady and I need to fake both.  Lovely Lindy Lad will be in 1930’s black tie, but I'm 5 inches too big around the waist for vintage gear.  As a former goth I can corset up tight, but how is one to dance when lung capacity is restricted to ‘wheeze and don’t drink pints’?  Anyway, reproduction girdles are infested with polyester; wrapping yourself in plastic and dancing until you melt sounds like an 80’s Jerry Hall slimming programme.

The fabulous Wyte Phantom (see her work here and here) is making me a foundation garment in natural fabrics, nipping in for a tiny waist, but leaving full use of my lungs.  Unfortunately I left it too late for the ball, so I’ll be in a 50’s reproduction - what’s 20 years between friends?.  

It's In The Bag

With thanks to Jenny Rollo

I'm almost prepared.  I have purchased red lipsticks to find the perfect vixen shade.  I've plucked my eyebrows into a curious arcs.  I've cut six inches off my hair so my victory rolls look less like sausage rolls, and bought enough hairpins to make a hedgehog wince.  

I'm armed with deodorant, perfume, skin blotting paper, evening gloves, lipstick, hairpins, hair brush, hairspray, a small towel, 'arriving shoes', dance shoes, wrap, contact lens drops, purse, keys, mobile, travel pass, cash card, asthma inhaler and blister plasters.  

And a tiny, discreet 1950’s evening bag.  

I hope 1930’s black tie has large pockets.

All this terror, and that's before I even think about the social dancing fear!

My Five Step Cure for Depression

Sometimes my magic dancing cure doesn't work.  When the life stuff I'm facing would faze anyone,  and a triple step ain't enough, I bring out my own unique five count.  So in honour of the last 72 hours of hell, meet my Five Step Cure for Depressive Dancer’s Depression

Reach Out

Contact with a human being makes me feel better.  My family, friends, and partner are amazing, but I fear being a burden, so often it’s Twitter for a 140 character twithug from a stranger, which magically helps a lot (if you;d like to be pne of them, follow me at @Depresseddancer).

Swing Out

Swing dancing, or any kind of exercise, but dancing is pure pleasure.  I just can’t cry when my brain is full of 'bop, bounce, kick the floor not him, mind your footwork, oops, that's a shin'.  Even when I'm low, the friendly social contact is at non-nerve-wracking levels, and the endorphins laugh in the face of Prozac.  

Make Out

You dirty minded lot!  I meant making things - or any kind of creativity (although a snoogle with Lovely Lindy Lad is never amiss!).  Flute playing, singing and writing feature, although I get a double helping of happiness from making things for my loved ones: card, sweets, nice meals, bread, cakes and pies.  Which leads me to...

Eat Out

Eat well, eat healthily, eat often.  It messes with my mood if I don’t. 

Speak Out

I want my pain to have a purpose.  I was too ashamed to admit my mental health problem.  I thought people would speak to me in hushed tones, doctors would force pills down my throat, and if I denied it then maybe it would go away.  People like Bipolar Blogger and Julie’s Mum changed my world and my perception.  Now I want to be part of the movement that helps others. 

I refuse to adjust my self-perception to include my illness.  I see it as temporary, a glitch caused by untenable life circumstances; but I know that's still the influence of stigma.  So I'm steamrollering over my fear.

It takes guts to write this thing.  I'm laying my insecurities (and my shoddy footwork) on the line.  But I want to challenge the stigma that silenced me.  Yeah, right now I've got a mental health problem, but over 1000 people have visited this page in the last two months.  If you’re still reading my entries then I'm doing some good.

My Secret Shop

This is a secret shop, shh, or everyone will know!

Trollied Dolly

• Glorious frocks with retro feels from the 40's to the 60's.
• 100% cotton, cut high at the back to cover for your lead's hand.
• Shaped so they move when you twist-twist, but your undies stay under
• Very nicely made, and OoooOOOoooo currently half price at 25 squids, don't mind if I do!

Mine arrived today, and I'm in love.  Number 2 is on the way.

One note of warning, I'm a 12 on the top and a 14 on the bottom (or a 10 in M&S!), but their 'Large' is perfect on me.  Might not be a problem for you sylph-like swingers.

And no they're not sponsoring me to do this, but if they want to I'd be happy to obligingly wear all of their dresses, forever, every time I go Lindy Hopping!

www.trollieddolly.com

I'm Asking You To Save A Life

I don’t like being candid about my depression, but this time the message is more important.  I'm going to teach you to help save a life.

Dance is the easy bit of my username to write about, when I’m depressed I don’t want to write, not in the witty amusing way that entertains you.  But hiding only gives you half a picture, and I need you to understand depression, or my mission is futile and I'll never be able to show how 'jiggery polka-ry' of the feet can do 'jiggery pokery' in the brain.

Even depressed dogs cheer up this Depressive Dancer

As I have fought to recover, I've come to categorise my depression into two types:

In active depression I can help myself.  I can step outside of the maelstrom of feelings and aid my recovery with the things that help me best: dancing, friends and family, nutritional food, relaxation and self care.  I find constructive ways to deal with the stresses of everyday life, that can overwhelm a person who is already dealing with incredibly complex emotions.

In the second type I have gone beyond that place.  I am a cool smooth stone, dropped into icy water.  I am no longer connected to the world; it is unreal, I am unreal, life never has been and never will be.  I do not exist.

Think the first sounds better than the second?  Things you can sort out always seem better.

But... active depression is more dangerous.  It's the time you are at most risk of harming yourself.  When you’re deeply depressed you’re unlikely to commit suicide, you’ve not got the energy.  When things aren't quite as bad, and  you start to feel again, it can get risky.  Spring is the classic time for this.

Stick with your depressed friends especially closely when they start to get better.

Talking about suicide does not encourage it, it helps prevent it. 

You can help stop suicide!

Do you know someone who is depressed?  1 in 4 people suffer mental health problems at some point,  you'll probably know at least one!  If you are ever worried about them taking their own life, look out for these warning signs*:

• Saying goodbyes, tying up loose ends, or putting affairs in order are warning signs.
• Mental health problems increase the risk
• Using drugs and alcohol increases risk.
• Recent trauma, bereavement or negative experiences e.g. losing a job or partner increases suicide risk.
• Having attempted suicide in the past increases suicide risk.
• Someone thinking about ways they would like to commit suicide and gathering things to help is at high risk.
• The risk is imminent if they have planned their suicide and have the tools they need.
• If you see all or some of these things, take action.

If someone close to you is suicidal...

• Give them space to talk.  You don't have to be wise or all knowing, just listen.
• Ask them to get help.  Consider contacting agencies that can support them.
• If the are suicidal right this minute go with the person to the accident and emergency unit, who will refer for emergency psychological help.
• They can call, email or sms the Samaritans any time of the day or night: www.samaritans.org
• This page helped me when I was very close to taking my own life.  I hope it helps others: www.metanoia.org/suicide

*This list is not comprehensive and does not take the place of professional mental health advice.

Wall-Flower Power: My First Lindy Social

I was a teenage wallflower.  That's a secret by the way.  These days I'm horribly over-talkative, confident, and don't look like the back end of a bus (possibly a tram?).  But hidden deep inside I have a geeky 12 year old who is silently begging that boy to ask her to dance.  Which brings me to today’s topic:

My First Social Swing Dance (tonight!)

I've done a snifter of social dancing.  After class us beginners huddle in a corner, painstakingly repeating what we've learned that week whilst the floor goes wild.  The truly brave even attempt bits of last week's sequence, but they're gung ho about their toes!

The terror of social dance

Sometimes you get approached by one of the intermediate class.  Someone who rarely treads on themselves, or their partner, a proper dancer.  It's an important moment.  You have a choice – warn them, or try and keep up until they realise they have an octopus of overcooked pasta dancing trying to dance with them.

Warnings are kindest. One lovely gentleman said to me "I asked if you'd like to dance, not if you could dance" before whisking me away.  An unsuspecting victim at the recent Meschiya Lake gig ignored my warning and attempted back Charleston.  He deserves a medal and/or some gold plated shin pads.

With the vintage ball looming in less than a month, I need to get dancing.  It’s one thing to shame myself, but I couldn’t bear to look bad for Lovely Lindy Lad.  So I’ve found a night of beginner social dance, and I’m psyching myself up to go. 

I  am, quite frankly, terrified.  I have battled the beast of depression, the animal of anxiety and tamed the tyranny of mental illness.  They seem easy peasy compared to this.

So if you see a 30-something woman on the side of the dancefloor, looking uncommonly like a 12 year old wallflower, do me a favour and ask her to dance!

PS Big shout to everyone at GraniteCity Blues Weekender, hope it’s awesome!