I haven't been do dance class in three months??!?? Feel like I'm always dancing around, though. This afternoon, I caught myself bellydancing in my car to Michael Buble doing a new rendition of Dean Martin's "Sway".

Is that dedication or WHAT??? Dedication, I tell you.

No, let's face it, I can't dance normal any longer. I don't care what it is, I can bellydance to it. Haven't tried dancing to Barry Manilow recently, but I can only assume I would be getting my hip drops going if I were to hear American Bandstand. Once a dork, always a dork. On this you can depend.

Although I've not been to class, I have been dancing my little booty off at home and at school. And in the OR --no one has asked why I keep shaking like that under my scrub gown, nor have they asked why my hands twirl about like they do when certain twirly-sounding songs come on the radio.

Which reminds me... in regards to surgeons: They really are funny, funny boys. I mean, who else would quiz you over hippie singers of the 60s and 70s whilest rummaging about in someone's innards with sharp, pointy objects? Who else would then go off on some silly tangent involving very bad colon puns?

My posture has changed, as I knew it certainly would when I began taking classes from BlondeSheena (Queen of the Laughing Snort and Feet Clapper Extraordinaire). I walk taller, which means I am suddenly very aware of how perky or non-perky my boobs are at any given moment. I keep thinking I need to find another decent bra and why is it that no one can make super-durable bras that even yours truly cannot destroy? I mean, I realize that I have some really great lats, but dammit... every time I find a bra that fits right, I get it all stretched out from doing massage. What kind of crap is that?

But I digress. I noticed something today which I mention to you out of both shock and dismay as well as a little bit of fear.

I have begun to swish when I walk.

Me.

Swish.

I know. It's weird.

Don't tell my mom I found my girlie gene, though, because next thing you know, she'll be trying to get me into flowy yellow dresses with bows and shoes with heels on them... and pantyhose. God no, please, don't tell my mom.

So here I am, shimmying, hip dropping, standing tall, sticking out my personality and swishing when I walk.

I think I've finally actually found my Inner Goddess. I'm so glad that she's comfortable in jeans and a tshirt and doesn't require (although she may secretly want and even wish for sometimes) long, flowy dresses or long hair. Usually, she's just happy with a little dun-tek-a-tek and the short, spiky hair inspired so long ago by Annie Lennox and her big cow eyes.

Or maybe I was the one with the big cow eyes. I don't remember. Point being... all hell's gonna break loose before too long, once this Goddess has feet to pavement and suitcase in hand. Watch out. I'm on my way, world.