I’m starting a new series.
I know what you’re thinking.
And I’m not really sure what you did to deserve this either.
In addition to my semi-regular installments of Stuff I Really Kind of Like About My Life in China, I will also be writing about challengey stuff that I make myself do every week (or so… because you can’t really expect me to challenge myself every week. That would just be crazy-talk).
As I mentioned before, I’ve decided 2012 is totally the year I’m going to challenge myself. Unfortunately, I tend to be the type of person who only challenges herself when there is some kind of incentive – like cash prizes or cake or the promise of public humiliation on my blog.
(Yes, I do consider humiliating myself on the Internet a suitable motivational technique. In the years that I’ve been blogging, I’ve done tons of things I totally didn’t want to do because I was pretty sure it was going to make me look like a a total idiot and, hence, make for a really good blog post. It’s a good thing I can’t afford therapy as I’m sure this is a sign of my crazy.)
I’m calling this new series Weeklyish Challengey Thingie. Because I am not really into using words that exist.
This week’s challengey thingie: leaving the house.
Trust me, it’s trickier than it sounds.At one point in my life I used to be the type of girl who went out on the weekends. Like on a regular basis. To places where other people gathered. And I’m not just talking about going to the grocery store.
I would wear fancy going out clothes and fancy going out shoes. I’d even carry a fancy going out purse – you know, the kind of purse that’s too small to make sense during the daylight hours.
I don’t know what happened to that girl. She went missing right about the time I moved to China with a collection of sensible black shoes and a purse large enough to carry stuff.
I suspect she slipped through the cracks of my couch cushions.
Sometimes, I miss that girl.
Especially her shoes.One of the many challenges I set out for myself this year is to get out of my apartment more. And, again, I’m not just talking about going to the grocery store.
So when my Italian colleague announced she wanted to go dancing for her birthday this past weekend, I went along.
Not that I had much choice in the matter, really.
I mean, it was her birthday. Who am I to refuse someone’s birthday wish?Besides, I really, really, really like dancing — especially in Asia as this is pretty much the only continent in the world where I am considered a good dancer.
You see, I lack the basic qualities needed to be a good dancer, like grace and coordination and rhythm and, say, any ability to stay upright while drinking.
Once while I was in a dance club in Canada, a beautiful, willowy, blonde woman marched up to me and informed me that I danced “like a drunken bunny.”
At the time, I figured she was jealous because I happened to be dancing with the guy that she liked.
Or she meant it as a compliment. Because, seriously, I can’t think of anything cuter than a drunken, dancing bunny, can you?
But, since this incident, it’s been brought to my attention that I do, in fact, dance like a drunken bunny.
It has also been brought to my attention that in most parts of the world dancing like a drunken bunny is, in fact, not a good thing.
Not even a tiny bit.
(I know. I don’t even know how that makes sense either.)Luckily in Asia, especially Japan and China where I have spent most of the last five years of my life, people tend to be a bit shy about dancing. And, well, it’s pretty easy to be the best dancer in the room, when you happen to be the only dancer in the room.
One of the only times I’ve gone dancing in Wuxi, my friends and I ended up in a smoky nightclub where our fellow club-goers stood around drinking and playing dice games. Every once in a while someone would sway a bit to the music, but this didn’t happen often.
Meanwhile, I was raising the roof, as the kids say these days.
Mind you, this wasn’t entirely easy to do when the selection of music included a techno version of the Mickey Mouse Club theme song.
But, hey, I was determined to dance, and dance I did. Even if that meant bogeying it to Disney.Luckily, when I went out dancing with my friend for her birthday this past weekend, the music selection was much better. In fact, we ended up in a club with a live band from the States.
And, much to my surprise, there was a big huge group of Chinese people dancing.
Including this guy, who hopped up on stage and started shimmying with the band.
He was so entirely adorable and awesome that I tried to dance with him later but he would have nothing to do with me.
His loss, really.
And then there was this guy whose entire dance repertoire involved waving his hands around in front of his body like a slow motion hulu dancer. Which must have been really exhausting because by midnight he was passed out.
But then, one of the musicians came up to me and told me that I was a really good dancer. We chatted for a little bit, and he informed me that he was from Boston.
I think this was maybe the first time in my life that a fellow American called me a good dancer.
I took that as a sign that I should keep on dancing. Because, obviously, I’m getting better with practice.
It’s probably also a sign that I should really, probably move to Boston already. You know, because, apparently, those Beantown boys are into drunken bunnies.
And, seriously, who could blame them?
I mean, can you think of anything cuter than a drunken, dancing bunny. Can you? I didn’t think so?Are you a good dancer or a bad dancer or a drunken bunny dancer?