My holiday brochure is yet to arrive and I’m beginning to get cold feet about going away at all in the process of waiting impatiently.
Have I once again been too ambitious with my plans? Remember Chicago? (You can read about it here and refresh your memory.)
Maybe all I really need is a night or two away from the boys?
Or even an hour?
I sneaked out this evening to a Zumba class and it felt great to shake and samba, jump and stamp my feet, letting the music carry me away.
I’d been in tears before I left the house, once again for no apparent reason apart from the lack of holiday plans.
It hadn’t been a bad day; I’d had my usual Monday morning walk with friends and re-potted a polyanthus I’d been given as a late birthday pressie.
The weather has been so unseasonably warm it seems like summer, so just where do these troubled tears bubble up from?
Usually writing takes away the blues but this mood went deeper, I started a depressing poem which is best filed in the bin, I needed exercise to dance away these blues.
I’ve always danced, starting ballet and tap lessons at two and a half. Every year we did a performance and when I started I was the cute one up on stage, at least I was always made a fuss of. It’s where I learnt to love the limelight and why I believe I am a good dancer. Whether it is true or not is another matter but let me hold on to this belief I desperately need it.
It’s something I’ve taken up again since Andrew died. Part of the rediscovery of me.
It’s still a hard and lonely journey despite all the encouragement you give me but with a bit of music maybe I can dance a few steps along the way and then it won't seem so bad!