Blistered feet, calloused fingers, but content as f*ck.

It is with a full belly of cultural amalgamation (bits of taco, bits of paella and bits of chinese noodles anyone?) that I sit down tonight to write and reflect about small things to be grateful for. I do realise this is alarming. I, the resident creep with a penchant for filling my nostrils with assorted objects, want to discuss things beyond my apparent maturity level? Yes. Hear me out.

I came home tonight from my routine Sunday night salsa class. Having tried my hand (well, foot) in salsa sometime in October, I've now been at it for about six months. I don't leave straight after my Level 4 class wraps up. I like to stay on for the next class, the beginner class, because I like to brush up on my skills. A new routine is taught every week, and Level 3's routine tonight was the very same routine from my 2nd ever Level 3 class. I remember being a clusterfuck that night - a vicious cycle of wayward limbs and the associated shame. I refer to that was the worst night of dancing I ever had - I was completely and utterly off my game, it was like I was gearing up for baseball... in a synchronised swimming arena. I don't take well to mediocrity, let alone failure, so I sulked my way home that night. I didn't end up coming back for weeks.

After biting the bullet and strapping on my dancing shoes - first my left foot, then my other left foot, I eventually came back. And tonight, after laying that old grievance to rest for months, it resurrected itself, and I looked it right in the eye as I grabbed it by the proverbial balls.

I could not believe how naturally the dance flowed. My feet, my hips, my smile... tonight just seemed privy to this language I had only ever heard in whispers. And I said a silent plea of thanks to the universe - for feeling so careless but simultaneously so attune to the rhythm, and for the wisdom brought on by fulfilled perseverance. We fail, we learn, we grow. I learned this tonight. So I guess my point in sharing this is to hammer in that age old adage of "never giving up". It's cheesy, yes, but I ain't ever gon' complain about extra mozarella in my four-cheese pasta!

And in other news, I finally cashed in my music store voucher that my Momma bestowed upon me during Christmas festivities. I have been unable to let go of my new steel string bad-ass-black Takamine. It still is yet to be named. Suggestions?

And it's the season of lent. I've been tossing up between giving up either a) men or b) chocolate, but this is proving to be an epic struggle. I have decided then that the only rational thing would be to compromise... and so it is that I shall be giving up c) chocolate covered men. I am freaking Mohammed! And if Mohammed don't go to the Mountain, the Mountain better go to Mohammed. And damnit the Mountain bows to me this time. He bows, alright.