The Olivia Rodrigo Release
Bududududududududu (is that how you spell the sound of drumming?). Imaginary drumsticks crashing down onto the air beneath me. Eyes closed just enough to see their reactions as I pound fists, strum fingers, and thrash my body in every direction.
The radio turned up to drown out any thoughts vying for my attention. Their eyes looking at me as if I’ve morphed into a maniac from a thriller, unsure whether to laugh, roll their eyes, or join in.
This love of dancing, and when I say dancing I say it loosely, started in university when I joined a jazz dance class in first year.
“Can everyone just briefly say the different types of dance you have done prior to joining this class?” the teacher asked on the first day. One by one, each person shared their years of prior experience.
“I took ballet once when I was six,” I said, laughing so I didn’t cry.
I quit the class and instead joined the intro to dance improvisation. My, I think she was French, teacher told us to close our eyes when we danced so we could feel our bodies move however we wanted without fearing how we looked to ourselves or others.
Once, we took a trip to Baltimore and acted like crabs on a huge hill with people everywhere looking at us. It was the best class I took in university, other than a very random Women on the Western Frontier history class.
15 years later, as a mum with only a handful of friends, all who don’t know each other remarkably well, I rarely get the chance to dance anywhere except for the kitchen.
Weddings used to be my drug of choice, my excuse to experiment with all the ways my body could move. But the lovely little invites with flowers and response cards rarely get pushed through our letterbox anymore. Every once in a while, there is a kid’s party with a disco. Or a live music night at a dinner out. But really, I think the joy of dancing in these environments would be drowned out by the embarrassment of all eyes on only me.
The one place (at the moment) I can dance without hindrance, without inhibition – is in my tiny square space kitchen, with its wobbly cupboard doors, crumbed floors, and blinding overhead light. A huge plus being that I can also eat cookies simultaneously.
Volume to the right, over and over and over, until it can go no louder, I close my eyes and release, everything.
Ideally, there is a rock-style type song (Olivia Rodrigo, I must admit) on that I can scream along with it while I whip my hair right and left and up and down. Tension that had been building up – the kids that keep arguing, the messy that keeps making, the work I can’t win, the body I don’t have, the dreams unfulfilled – it all pours out, in each pound, twist, contortion, jump, high-pitched scream.
I used to just dance on my own when no one was looking. But the thing is, when kids come along, they are always there.
Spilt. Cuddle. Hungry. Bored. Tired. Just want to be near you sweetness.
My secret society of lone dancing opened a child at a time.
“Dance with me,” I say reeling them in, sweeping them off their feet. Most of the time, they take some warming up, self-conscious their moves aren’t quite as smooth as mine, more like they don’t want to look as ridiculous as I do. But eventually, when they realise their too-cool-apathy won’t rub off on or deter me, they give in.
And then, they dance, laugh, letting out the tension from their small, but very really worlds.
Dancing is by no means a cure for everything, but it is so often the only release, other than getting very drunk, that I can depend on.
The next few months are going to be full of so much change. I’m no longer sure I’m a writer. But sure I can’t be self-employed, so plan to start looking for a job that is part-time, funds my cappuccino from Gregs habit, allows me to pick up my kids from 3-4, and then work from home from 4-5. I’m sure it will be really easy to find the perfect possibility.
When my youngest started full-time nursery, I expected to have to ask all the questions about what I was going to do with my life. But the questions were delayed, until now.
35 and no clue what the rest of my life will look like. I’m not sure why, but the thought is a weight.
A weight that is heavy until Olivia Rodrigo, whose music I wish I hated but secretly (not now) love, starts playing, practically yelling at me about a bloodsucking vampire that only comes out at night, with drums I pound all the fear of the future into.
Futures can’t be planned, not in my case or anyone else’s, but heart-racing, ridiculous dancing (or any number of cathartic, theraputic, absorbing activities) can be done until the next step is taken.