One time my parents were hiking, and a little boy was finishing up the trail with his mom, beleaguered, falling behind the group, when he said, “I’m trying to die, Mom.” That’s kind of become a running thing with our family because, as it turns out, we try to die a lot when it comes to anything physical.
Tonight I began non-music rehearsals, which meant I would be blocked and staged, and that sounded like a lot of fun. Naturally I wore a rayon top and pegged jeans because, I mean, what else would I wear to a rehearsal with the choreographer?
[A backstory you should know: When I first met the choreographer, a lot of words came out of my mouth like, “If you feel like it’s appropriate to choreograph dance moves for me” and “I took African dance in college” and “I like to dance a lot.” Because … you know.]
As it turns out, the man took me seriously, which led to my learning some very brief choreography (and by brief, I mean, like, eight counts worth, which I imagine takes me about eight seconds) in my rayon top and pegged jeans, led to my being hoisted up on two dudes’ shoulders and digging my fingers into their clavicles so tightly that I imagine they were waiting for them to snap under the pressure, led to my being eternally grateful for a slow part of the song so I could catch my breath. From, you know, those eight seconds and being lifted up. Being lifted up is kind of taxing, is all I’m saying.
I’m trying to die, you guys.