In high school I was in dance bootcamp every single day. Literally, every day. I left school at 1pm to be at the studio by 2pm. Then all the advance level bun-heads (myself included) took a supplement class (yoga, pilates before it was cool, hiphop, modern, jump workshop, pas de deux, variations) followed by ballet technique. We also did this on Saturdays. Sundays were supposed to be off but were inevitably commandeered by rehearsal because according to our teachers we *sigh* just weren’t ready. And we were fat. And soon even the hours after 6pm when we were supposed to done during the week were overtaken by extra classes (a mandatory two every week) and, um, more rehearsal for the fatties. To say I was in a lot of shows would be an understatement. Two major performances a year with multiple shows and multiple parts. During performance week I gained the nickname “weird about time” which is an awkward nickname I admit. Our artistic director was a bit of a perfectionist, no that’s an understatement, she was hardcore OCD, and made us all sew our point shoe ribbons into our tights before each performance on the 1 in 100 chance that they would become untied during the show, which was to her as unsightly as the way most of us did our hair. This must of happened once because she checked our shoes to make sure we did it. And we rebelled for not only the obvious reasons but also for the fact that sewing on and later un-sewing satin ribbons absolutely destroys the pink seamed convertible tights we were required to wear that cost over$30 a pop. Nonetheless I would be warmed up in costume and sewn into my tights HOURS before show time. And since I was fully make-uped and of course in something white, I couldn’t eat or touch up said makeup during this time. So I would just sit awkwardly bouncing my legs while everyone else got ready I would get physically nervous for my fellow dancers who seemed to be taking way too long perfect that Balanchine bun (as if they would actually start the music without them).
The point of all this is that I was visiting the beautiful Crystal Dempsey the other day and she warned me that traveling with friends is how you discover their true personalities. And I kind of laughed and was all yea, I hope no one is weird…like about time. And now I’m on said vacation, (typing from 35994feet), and I’m already feeling nervous. Like we HAVE to eat at the airport in Seattle even though we have a five hour layover before our train because what if we don’t make it and we miss the train and it’s sold out and vacation is ruined kind of nervous. My friends love me.
BTDubs I’m running on 2 hours sleep.
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We survived Seattle including venturing out of the terminal to get food. We even managed to squeeze in pike’s place (and the original starbucks: life goal accomplished if my life was extremely sad) and I got a pastry from Piroshky Piroshky (dope Russian bakery) and I started to get that feeling I always get when I travel which that is I wish I lived in a real city. No offense, cha-town.
Now we’re on the train to Vancouver and omg, trains are the future people. Coach on a train=first class on a plane. I can stretch my legs people. PRAISE JESUS. People is my new crutch word. And again, 2 hours of sleep. THIS SEAT IS SO ROOMY I AM SO HAPPYYYYYYYYYYYY. Do you all want to travel with me yet? I thought so. Oh, but just in case you weren’t sure, guess what I’m doing on the train? I’m drinking wine and watching videos of Rasputin. If that doesn’t scream sad single middle aged woman, I don’t know what does. The conductor just threatened to imprison the people using cell phones in eastern Europe. LOVE trains.
So yea. Live blogging my vacation. What you gonna do?
I’ll probably be popping in over @cltblog throughout the next week, but as per uze , the REAL Olympic coverage will be here. Including need to know information such as: just how awesome is it to semi-legally smoke weed? This is so the #FoJ.
