Working to failure

In an LJ post today, m_stiefvater writes about how the only way to be good at something (unless you're a freakish natural at one particular thing) is to be willing to suck at it.

Last night at Bellydance Conditioning class, I sucked so bad. The combo moves we were learning are not remotely close the style of dance I generally stick to, and are at my outer limit of what I've got for basic body mobility. Also, maybe I was kind of having a Fat Day.

When got home, mckitterick asked "How was class?"

"Fine," I said.

"What did you do?"

"Felt like a fat failure."

And really, feeling like a fat failure is fine as long as I don't linger there (ha! for those of you who'll get that little unintentional inside pun). I can either continue to practice that Sidewinder move all the time every day or decide I'm not going to add it to my dance vocabulary (honestly, it will probably be the latter because it so does not fit my general dance style).

I'm still plugging along at practicing Zipper Hips, though, because that combo is the fucking bomb.

This is sooo much better than drunk dialing

I took the casserole out of the oven and finished the deviled eggs so mckitterick has at least the choice of healthy eating options while I'm gone. Note to self: Never again make hard boiled eggs with eggs less than one week old. Peeling them sucks ass.

Now I'm getting drunk, drinking wine straight out of the bottle because nothing is worse than having dirty dishes waiting on the side of the sink while the dishwasher runs.

I really should be packing my suitcase, but instead I'm pondering the ramifications of browsing through some more new porn we acquired. Yay, porn!