the sun is a mass of incandescent gas
My work day has been immeasurably improved ever since I downloaded the TMBG clock radio. I listen on headphones, of course, which only makes it weirder when I start giggling to something no one else can hear. I was driven to this wonder by my officemates' liking of light pop radio, which has the opposite effect on me. I am the girl who can work to anonymous grinding industrial, but give me 'The Girl Can't Help It' and I'll start chewing my cheeks in irritation.
Some lovely things happened last night at my belly dancing class. First of all, I was the knitting avenger, avenging all situations in which knitwear is required. Which I suppose is a grandiose way of saying that I finished my 2 day dance socklets in time for class, and I lent out my wristwarmers to a girl with chronically cold hands. The socklets are for a little bit of slippage to aid my turns. They are my answer to buying a dance half-shoe or cutting up a pair of whole socks; when I can just knit a tube of any length with materials laying around my house why should I take scissors to an innocent pair of machine socks? And the wristwarmers were just sitting in my pocket, but I certainly felt like a hero when her hands were warm and sweaty at the end of class thanks to my knitting. Plus, I was wearing my provocatively worded knit t-shirt, so I had a uniform and everything.
Besides the yarny stuff (or perhaps because of it), I made a breakthrough. I've been grumpy for three weeks, a classic Type A response to my clumsy dancing. This week I started to nail the chest lifts and it felt like someone else was moving my body. I don't think I've ever stared at my rack with so much admiration. I'm so happy. With a small victory, I can keep hopeful that one day I'll be able to bust out to The Ubiquitous Mr. Lovegrove and no one will laugh. (Not that people usually laugh during a goth dance-a-thon, but it could always be the first time. Wouldn't that be a terrible claim to fame? I was the girl who broke through everyone's studied facade - with hilarity.)
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*