A week or so ago, I posted on Facebook that I needed nice, affordable pants for my awesome new office job. Difficulty level:
- Must fit on curvy figures. (I’m not going to give you my measurements, but I have a disproportionately small waist and disproportionately large thighs. The outer circumference of my thighs together is larger than my hips.)
- Must be reasonably priced.
- Preferably washable.
- Comfortable would be good, too.
I mentioned the Betabrand Dress Pant Yoga Pants, asking if anyone had tried them. A couple of friends answered immediately that they love the pants and thought they were worth the money. They said the pants were flattering on curvy figures, washable, and oh so comfortable. As for price, $78 was WAY beyond what I wanted to pay. But when I looked at the website, I saw a 10% off coupon. “Maybe they’ll have a better coupon out soon,” I thought.
The next time I logged onto Facebook, I saw an ad labeled:
It was, quite literally, the sign I had been waiting for.
I figured I was a large, regular length. I bought the black boot cut pants because I wanted a bit of flare at the bottom of the pant leg to balance out my massive thighs.
The pants shipped astonishingly quickly. I had them in hand by Friday. But once I got them out of the bag (which, by the way, is decorated with a line drawing that bears a striking resemblance to Mordhaus), I had my doubts. That button and faux fly weren’t going to fool anyone. These were pull-up stretch pants. Not even yoga pants — stretch pants, with the giant wide elastic waist and everything. The material was definitely thick and wrinkle-free, but was it appropriate for the workplace?
I tried them on. “I think they’re too tight around the back of the thighs,” I told The Boyfriend. “Look how the fabric is puckering and wrinkling.”
“Your butt looks so great in them,” he replied.
So I kept them. And I ordered a second pair that night using the same secret sale coupon.
By Monday morning, they were washed and ready to go. Here’s pretty much what happened that day:
8 a.m.: Feel extremely self-conscious as I walk to the office break room. The pants are lower than I expected, and they get a little lower with every step. My button-down shirt isn’t quite long enough to hide my side and back tattoo, and I don’t want to spend the day hitching the pants up.
9 a.m.: Spill coffee on pants. No stain. Still no wrinkles. Feeling more confident about my pants-buying decision.
10 a.m.: E-mail one of the friends who recommend the pants. I tell her, “OMG! These are amazing! Do you have them in any other color? I think the glen plaid might look nice on me, but the stripes might stretch or look zig-zag over my thighs.” Alas, she only has the solids for the same reason. She is happy I like the pants.
11 a.m.: Go to restroom. Admire my reflection. Yeah, these pants are WAY tighter than anything I’d normally wear. But most of my work wardrobe is 10+ years old. Hell, I bought the shirt I had on in 2002. I don’t have any leggings or skinny jeans. Is it so terrible that I have something kind of fun and trendy and young? Especially if it’s washable!
1 p.m.: Feeling bloated from a surprisingly small lunch. The pants are feeling less comfy and more constrictive. I am not sure why I thought these were comfortable. I miss actual yoga pants, which still slide down over the top of your butt as the day goes on, but which also don’t make you feel like you’re wearing a girdle.
2 p.m.: Man, these pants have no give whatsoever. Maybe I am too old for this sh*t.
3 p.m.: Meeting!
4 p.m.: My thighs are starting to tingle, and I don’t mean that in a sexytime kind of way.
5 p.m.: I call Betabrand and cancel my second order.
In summation, I’m glad I tried the Dress Pant Yoga Pants, and I’m okay with keeping the one pair I have. Soon it’ll be cold, and since I don’t wear jeans, I’ll wear them out of desperation on the more frigid casual Fridays. At least I have washable pants now, even if they’re too tight to look professional.
But they don’t look professional, at least not on my body. They’re simply too snug around the thighs to look appropriate in an office. Plus, The Boyfriend might be the only person who thinks I look good in them.
In truth, I could probably get away with wearing them to work. It’s a pretty conservative place, but the pants aren’t exactly inappropriate (though I would prefer to wear a longer shirt next time). But I don’t feel confident in them. Regardless of what other people think, I think they’re not that flattering and definitely not polished enough for my role and my responsibilities. I can look better. I can do better. So I will. (At least from Monday to Thursday.)
And in the meantime, feel free to suggest other places to get pants (or non-static-y tights) to me, and I’ll keep on living my dress life.
Copyright 2015, Sarah Rodriguez Pratt. All rights reserved.
It’s no secret that I draw — mostly sassy birds and dogs — and that I’ve learned everything I know from the great Pat Falconer. Her “Draw Your Dog” and “Bird Illustration for Beginners” classes turned me from someone who could barely draw a stick figure into someone who could do a cheesy yet occasionally amusing comic strip. Her drawing classes even helped my writing.
And now, thanks to Pat, I’ve been invited to be part of a gallery showing! Stop by Jerry’s Artarama before July 30 to view the Consider Colored Pencil! exhibit. I have three works up: “Zelda,” “Johnny the Outsider Woodpecker,” and “T.S. Qualiot.” All the works in the show are fantastic, and I’m honored to be a part of this!
Copyright 2015, Sarah Rodriguez Pratt. All rights reserved.
HEY, YOU GUYS! What’s going on? It’s been such a long time!
I’ve meant to write an update for a while, but, well, there weren’t many updates from January through March. Just work, flamenco classes, my dog, and life.
But things picked up in April. To my honor and delight, I was invited to speak at three college classes (two Children’s and Adolescent Literature classes and one Creative Writing for Young Adults class) at the University of Texas – Pan American. The next day, I spoke at two high school English classes and one Literary Magazine class at the International Baccalaureate Academy in McAllen — classes that were taught by my high school English teacher! What an incredible experience.
And those students BROUGHT IT, you guys. I got questions so good and so sharp, I was almost caught off guard for a moment. I left each class excited, invigorated, and psyched for the future of the Rio Grande Valley. Kids this smart and intellectually curious are going to do great things one day.
Getting to the Valley to speak, though…that was a bit of an adventure.
I started off on a Sunday afternoon soaring down Highway 130 (going the speed limit, of course), gazing at fields of bluebonnets under the gorgeous spring sun, a perfect cerulean sky overhead, and thinking how much I love Texas.
Then I took a wrong turn, had to get back onto 130…and that’s when it all went very, very wrong.
The short version: my car’s transmission was destroyed. Which I wouldn’t find out until the next day, in between speaking engagements. All I knew at the time was that my car had a terrifying-looking red warning light — an angry red exclamation point surrounded by a wheel — and I was somewhere near Seguin. Complicating matters: I knew the car might not turn on again, so I parked next to an IHOP so I could at least use the restroom — and it was closed.
Eventually, I found a tow truck company that would take Oliver and me to the closest dealership / service center, which was in San Antonio. I then had to get a rental and drive to the RGV ASAP, since I was speaking at 8 a.m. the next day.
In summation: I was going to be in McAllen, my now-undrivable car was going to be in San Antonio, and I needed to somehow get both of us to Austin.
It was a bit frustrating, to say the least.
But not nearly as frustrating as when I learned the transmission repair would cost more than the car was even worth.
“You’ll need another car,” my mom and stepdad told me.
“I know,” I sighed.
“What are you looking for?”
I said I wanted a Mini. But I knew that I probably couldn’t afford one outright, and I was bound and determined to not have a car payment. “Maybe I can find something red,” I said hopefully. “Something with a sunroof.”
They reminded me to be reasonable — i.e., to lower my expectations.
I spoke to the college classes on Monday. I spoke to the high school classes on Tuesday. On Wednesday, I had to get back to work (which, fortunately, I could do remotely). Before work, though, I went to the local Honda dealership. I went straight to the used section.
And that’s where I saw a 2012 pre-owned certified Civic with less than 30,000 miles on it. And it was dark red. AND it had a sunroof.
I’d be lying if I said it was the car of my dreams. But it was the solution to my nightmare.
My stepfather and I negotiated the price over my lunch break. After work, I went back to the dealership, signed a bunch of papers, wrote a check, and drove the car to my mom and stepdad’s house.
My new car is named Calvin, partially because Civic starts with C and partially because the first song I heard after deciding to buy him was “The Next Episode” by Dr. Dre and Calvin Broadus Jr. (also known as Snoop Dogg). He is not nearly as fast or as strong as Oliver. He doesn’t have the Harmon Kardon speakers; I really miss hearing bass through sweet-ass subwoofers. And I miss the beautiful, ridiculously posh monstrosity that was my giant red 2006 BMW 330i. I will always miss it. I will never have another car like that (well, not at least until the Helen of Hollingsworth movie trilogy takes off).
But Calvin gets superb gas mileage. And he is mine. All mine. Oh, and he has an extended warranty, including transmission coverage — which is good, because apparently that sh*t is expensive.
Sometimes we have to make tough decisions. Sometimes those decisions involve selling an item we loved very, very much, and being thankful that we found someone to give us money for it at all (and I am thankful that I did find a buyer for Oliver, very much so). Sometimes those decisions involve most of our savings, spent via personal check over our lunch break. Such is life. And when we have the savings to make those decisions, we are very thankful indeed.
So: life continues. Work. Flamenco lessons. Hopefully more speaking engagements one day (especially since I have a reliable car now). And more work on Book III very soon. I’m now planning to release it before the end of 2016. I can’t wait.
So, to celebrate a tentative release date, let’s have a look at the cover!!!
AAAHHHHH DON’T YOU JUST LOVE IT
It’s been an exciting spring, and I can’t wait to see what the rest of the year brings. Since I really want to get Book III done and released earlier in 2016 rather than later, I probably won’t have a lot of blog updates. But I will update y’all as progress is made.
Ever forward, my dear sweet readers. Ever forward.
(Oh yeah, one more thing: I saw Rush on their R40 Austin stop. It was amazing. Of course.)
Copyright 2015, Sarah Rodriguez Pratt. All rights reserved.
“Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father,
Run for your children, for your sisters and your brothers.
Leave all your love and your longing behind;
You can’t carry it with you if you want to survive.”
–Florence and the Machine, “Dog Days Are Over”
When I started writing the What We Found in the Divorce posts, I had no idea that they would resonate with so many people. The messages and comments I’ve received about them have amazed me. I worry sometimes that I’ve overshared, but all I’ve ever wanted to do with my writing is make people feel like they’re not alone — like someone else understands them and is articulating what they’re going through. And it sounds like this series has done that for some of you. And that means the world to me.
As you can imagine, though, these posts have kind of wiped me out. Between the emotional expense, the time they take to write, and the impending holidays, I’m going to take a hiatus from blogging until 2015. I hope to have a new series of posts for you then about my yearlong obsession with birds, which — if all goes according to plan — will end just in time for me to speak at Testify in February. Work and life might get in the way; but, as always, we’ll do the best we can.
But first, some final thoughts on WWFITD:
Like many people, I fell head over heels for the song “Dog Days Are Over” by Florence and the Machine. Unlike many people, I didn’t hear it until the summer of 2011. But it washed over me like an ocean wave in the summer, crisp and sparkling and joyfully familiar. I loved it. I lurved it.
But in 2011, Alzheimer’s disease began claiming my grandmother. After she died in 2012 (there’s an abbreviated version of the funeral post here), I pretty much stopped being a person for over a year. I stopped listening to new music. I stopped watching new movies. I missed everything that came out in pop culture during that time. Even now, someone will mention a film or a song that came out in 2012 or 2013, and I just shake my head. Eventually, Kendrick Lamar’s album good kid, m.A.A.d city brought me back to life, but that’s another blog post for another time.
During 2012 and 2013, I clung to Rush, Johnny Cash, and Florence and the Machine, especially Ceremonials (as mentioned in the funeral post) and Lungs: The B-Sides. At times, the most important phrases in my life were “Drive On,” from Cash’s song of the same name, and “Run Fast,” echoed over and over again in the Yeasayer remix of “Dog Days” from Lungs: The B-Sides. All I wanted to do was move forward, out of this hell of mourning and alienation. All I wanted to do was drive on and run fast.
When I left this summer, I thought of one line over and over: “Leave all your love and your longing behind.” I was carrying too much pain to survive. So I gave away tons of stuff. I shed my belongings, accumulated over an almost seven-year marriage and an almost thirteen-year relationship, like a snake shedding its skin. That would help, for a little while. And then the fear and panic and sadness would come rushing back.
But my heart is a pack rat. I could’ve given stuff away until the apartment was bare, but my heart refused to let go of anything. My friends, obviously, it clung to the hardest. My family — even the family members who’d hurt me once upon a time — it embraced and welcomed back. It even worried about my ex, who I still care about (in a platonic way).
What ultimately helped my heart the most (in addition to exercise and meditation), and what I’ve tried to do more and more every day, is to celebrate my victories. Every single one of them, no matter how small. If I take the dog out without crying, that’s a victory. If I eat a salad for dinner — hell, if I eat anything at all — victory. Three hours of sleep in a row instead of two? VICTORY. You have to celebrate your victories, because they’re proof that you’re moving forward. They’re proof that your life is shifting from survival mode to peace and possibility, one little victory at a time.
So when it comes down to it, I think the chorus of “Dog Days” is wrong, at least for me. You should run fast, but you should run fast for yourself, not for anyone else. And you don’t have to leave all of your love and your longing behind. You can carry at least some of it with you — you need to in order to survive.
I chose to leave not to make a few months of my life worse, but to make the rest of my life better. I was running from something hurtful and real and certain; and what I was running toward was only a possibility, not a reality. But I was still running toward something. And every day, that possibility — the possibility of a better, happier life — gets closer. I just have to keep running toward it, as fast as I can.
From November 29:
“Do things that make you uncomfortable,” she used to tell me, she being one of those friends who gave tough but incredibly good advice. “If something scares you, do it. Then it won’t have power over you.”
Which is why I went shopping at a mall and an art bazaar the day after Black Friday.
I had to return something at the Domain ($98 dollar pants from Athleta, which I bought in a moment of weakness and low temperatures, and which didn’t even fit right!). What was supposed to be a mid-morning, as-soon-as-they-opened trip slid into a midday trip, but I wore a vintage-style dress and super cute lacy cardigan with flamingos embroidered onto it, so at least I looked good (if odd among the world’s skinny jeans and hoodies).
Sure enough, it was ridonkulously crowded. Yet I returned my item without waiting in line. And, to my surprise, the Steeping Room was able to seat me right away. Party of one sometimes has its advantages.
At the table, I pulled out my copy of Stitches by Anne Lamott — which I had not been enjoying as much as Help, Thanks, Wow until the other night, when the words stopped meandering around and became poignantly, perfectly, almost alarmingly relevant to my life — and read while I waited for lunch. Soon, I was sniffling. (Have you read Anne Lamott’s work? If so, then you understand.) The words on the pages grew blurry through my tears. Ugh. EMOTIONS.
I pulled a tissue out of my purse and dabbed at my eyes, trying to be subtle about my waterworks. I’m sure the older couple next to me talking about what scone to get next were a little off-put, as were the teenagers on my other side. But I didn’t mind. At least it guaranteed that no one would try to talk to me.
What surprised me later when I thought about the incident was the power found in juxtaposing two apparent opposites. The odd strength in odder dualities. Dabbing at my eyes in a crowded restaurant made me vulnerable, but it also made me strong. I may have looked uncomfortable, but that was because I was so moved by what I was reading. I was confident in my sadness, comforted by my emotional turbulence.
Have I told you guys about The Savage Girl by Alex Shakar? It’s one of my favorite books ever. It’s a wry dystopian take on the future of advertising. At one point, the narrator points out how the most successful commercials combine things that are total opposites. Think of the average coffee commercial: a calm breakfast nook scene, and a coffee drinker being revitalized. Relaxation meets energy. Ever since reading that, I’ve become obsessed with working the concept of duality into my writing. Just look at Choose Your Weapon; the whole thing is one duality after another. A fantasy world vs. the real world. The kids’ friendships vs. their cliques and social order. Helen’s home life vs. her school life. Helen’s concept of who she is vs. how the world wants to see her.
After lunch (and even before it, to be honest), I felt like my vulnerability made me stronger. Centered. As comfortably invincible as I needed to be. I moved through the crowds without feeling jostled, or worried about being jostled. I went to the Blue Genie Art Bazaar — for the first time since 2008! — and didn’t get antsy over the sheer number of people around me. I looked at lovely things that moved me (like a notecard of a bird driving a car, and of a robot holding hands with a dog), and at kind-of-lovely things that were way overpriced (too many to list). And I laughed way too loudly when someone’s child looked at the Rory Skagen stocking stuffer display and asked, “Mommy, what are merkins?” Small tidings of comfort and joy, but they were comforting and joyful nonetheless (even if one of them was at some poor kid’s expense).
Sometimes I wish life had those epic movie moments where you rise up and conquer all. You are George McFly finally punching Biff. You are Kaffee in A Few Good Men telling Jessup, “You’re under arrest, you son of a bitch.” You are Mrs. Brisby with The Sparkly, Romy and Michelle leaving their reunion victorious, Prince Phillip slaying the dragon Maleficent, The Bride slaying everyone. But most of the time, we don’t get to kick the villain’s ass or save the kingdom. Most of the time, our victories are small but palpable, if only to us. They aren’t epic; they’re incremental.
But they are victories nonetheless. And we have earned the hell out of them.
This Christmas and beyond, that is my advice to you, dear reader. Celebrate your victories. All of them. And celebrate your friends’ and loved ones’ victories, too.
And if you ever find that you have to run — from anything, not just a toxic relationship — I have three hopes for you:
May you always run fast.
May you run for yourself above all else.
And may you run not just from something terrible, but toward something wonderful.
Copyright 2014, Sarah Rodriguez Pratt. All rights reserved.
“‘Cause you’ve got time,’
He keeps telling me.
‘You’ve got time.’
But I don’t believe him.”
“In time, I
Will fade away.
In time, I
Won’t care what you say.
But time takes time, you know.”
After I left my now-ex-husband, the most popular thing I heard from the people close to me was, “Give yourself time.” Everyone who said it meant well. And maybe hearing it works for some people. Maybe some people find enough comfort in the knowledge that this, too, shall pass.
I am not one of those people. Every time I heard those words, I felt like Sergeant Al Powell in Die Hard, yelling, “I need backup assistance now! NOW, GOD DAMN IT, NOW!”
I am not someone who can just wait out pain. I have to do something about it. Anything about it. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I took long walks in a park that I loved. I hung out with friends constantly. I threw myself wholeheartedly, whole-everything-ly, into work and writing. I couldn’t even sit down and watch a TV show end-to-end, much less a movie, because I literally had to keep moving. The thought that I just had to wait out my unhappiness was almost unbearable.
I’ve never, ever given myself time. I’ve never felt like I had time. After my father died in 1996, at the end of my freshman year at Harvard (two days before my last final, which I took anyway), I was determined to be over it and moving on by the end of the summer. I gave myself three months to mourn and heal. By September, I told myself I was fine. I wasn’t, but there was too much else to worry about. Classes. Boys. The idea that I, too, could be yanked out of existence by accident and without warning. I lived every day like it was my last day, because I truly believed it could be.
Time is not my friend.
Which does not explain why I had a giant clock tattooed on my back in 2011.
I wrote a huge blog post about it at the time, but here’s the short version about what it means to me now:
In 2010, I left full-time work at a nonprofit because people were getting laid off left and right. Back in 2008, I’d started writing fiction for the first time in a decade, but now I was intent on writing something worth publishing. This gave me a lot of time to stand face-to-face with my own inadequacy. I was a terrible writer. I could be a better one, but I didn’t know how to become one. Hopelessness took root and grew, pervasive and toxic and all-consuming.
Then, through a series of events — starting with “Rock Band” and getting obsessed with “Tom Sawyer” (the hardest song in the catalogue; as a perfectionist, I was determined to master it), then seeing Rush: Beyond the Lighted Stage, and culminating with seeing the Time Machine Tour in San Antonio on September 23, 2010 — I found something that had been long absent in my life: hope. Rush had been around for almost four decades at that point, and I was just finding out about them. Surely, I told myself, there were other wonderful things in the world worth discovering. I just had to wait and find them.
So I got the album cover for the CD single of “Caravan” — the chorus of which goes, “In a world where I feel so small / I can’t stop thinking big” — on my back, to remember that there is great possibility in the future. And six months later, I got the opening notes for “The Spirit of Radio” tattooed around my ankle — the first notes from the first song I ever heard Rush play live — to celebrate the beautiful moments of the past.
So maybe time is my friend. It just takes a hell of a long time to show up.
In flamenco, there is a dance move called recoge. Literally translated, the word means “collect,” “gather,” “retrieve,” or “pick up.” In flamenco, it’s basically when you take a few steps back and, in a sense, pull yourself together before your next dance. After a particularly rough night, I realized that my whole life was recoge. I was pulling myself back together before the next move.
After realizing that, I felt a lot better. Because recoge isn’t just sitting around, waiting for the pain to stop. It’s part of the dance, too.
From November 13:
“I think the heat’s broken in my apartment,” I tell the front office.
A maintenance guy arrives within five minutes. “It’s these sliding glass doors,” he says, gesturing at the second-floor balcony, which takes up much of the exterior wall. “All the cold air comes through the windows. They have no insulation. If you want to get a blanket or a thick curtain or something, I can help you tape it up around the window. That will help.”
“I’ll think about it,” I lie.
It’s so cold on the second floor of the townhouse-style apartment that I finally rethink my previous decision not to go walking tonight. I already need a coat inside. Might as well wear one outside for a while. So I lock up Verona in her crate with two huge blankets, and I set out for the frigid tundra of Austin’s outdoors.
The trail is empty. I stay where there are lights, strolling on the other side of the pretty little houses, my gloved hands shoved into my wool coat pockets. I walk at a cheerful pace under the night sky, relieved to not be crying for a few minutes. I cry every day now. Sometimes it’s because the days feel bleak. Sometimes it’s because the days feel like a sparkling mixture of bleak and joyful. I cry because I’m happy. I cry — I absolutely weep — when I’m sad. I cry because I’m terrified of the future and overcome with pain from the past. I cry because I am grateful that the house is selling, but I have no idea how to find a place and a life that feels like Home. I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, hoping I end up Home eventually.
Last night, I lay awake in the blissfully warm third-floor bedroom of my otherwise freezing apartment, comfortable and content — until I started wondering if I could survive if I was suddenly transformed into a puffin. A marvelous example of what it’s like to have anxiety and a huge imagination and a perpetual desire to have an emergency plan for All Possible Things. You might do the same thing once in a while: you’ll wonder if you could survive if, say, you were somehow instantly dropped into a rainforest. Or left in Antarctica with inadequate cold weather gear. Or transformed into an Arctic seabird.
Of course I couldn’t survive as a puffin. I can barely handle walking around in a 60-degree living room; swimming on the north Atlantic during winter would annihilate me within minutes.
Then again, I told myself as I turned a corner, a puffin probably couldn’t survive as a Sarah. It would take them forever to learn content management systems. Especially if they had to type with those wings.
I walk past one of my favorite buildings and think about how, despite all the crying, I have become so much better about accepting myself. I know what I am, and I know what I’d like to work on, but the rest of it is just How It Is. I’m an oversharer; hello, this status update is a perfect example. I’m highly sensitive: to words, to alcohol, to the damn cold weather. I have the heart of a baby animal — a giant baby animal — that avoids most of the world, but oh, the few people it imprints onto, it will follow them anywhere. Which means it gets injured. A lot. But still, it feels and it loves, with all the enthusiasm and sweetness and lack of intelligence of a cartoon character. Maybe I’m actually Dumbo, the first thing that comes to mind when I think of the words “giant baby animal.” Deep down inside, I do believe that if I just found the right feather, I could hold onto it and fly. Plus, my ears are pretty big.
I start down the home stretch of my walk, still not crying. Feeling no desire to cry, in fact. I think of my new mantra about myself: “Soul of a Veyron; heart of a field mouse.” I wonder if I can get someone to design a logo for the blog using those phrases.
I think of going back to the apartment, and my heart sinks a little. I don’t want to shiver on that miserably cold second floor anymore, and winter just started. But nothing lasts forever. Soon, it will be summer again. And then, the third floor will be miserably overheated and unable to fully cool.
But maybe I won’t even be in this apartment by next summer. Maybe I’ll have a different place. Somewhere that cools and heats a little more evenly. Somewhere that feels like, well, if not like Home, then at least closer to it than where I am now.
As I saunter between the houses, I smell dryer sheets in the air. Their comforting florals overpower the crisp winter scent of burning mesquite. All around me, people are in their safe little houses, doing laundry and living their lives. They are Home. They are putting down roots. And I walk between them, warm despite the cold, unsure of where I’m ultimately going to settle, but just putting one foot in front of the other, ever forward, until I get there.
I pass a little garden flag shaped like a turkey. “Be Thankful,” it says.
And I am. I truly am.
(In lieu of adding a photo to this post, I am sharing a video from the Rush concert tour that changed my life. It’s not from that fateful night in San Antonio, but it’s close enough. This version of this song is one of the greatest things I never thought I would discover: insanely difficult prog rock mixed with polka. And while I am thankful for many things, I am especially thankful to whoever took this video, so I can relive this moment again and again.)
Copyright 2014, Sarah Rodriguez Pratt. All rights reserved.
“You start with Intro to Flamenco. Then you take it again. Everyone repeats Intro to Flamenco at least once. Then, if you’re ready, you move on to Flamenco I. And you stay there for a long time. Some people have been there for years. And eventually, if you want to, you move up to Flamenco II. And then you take that for years. And that’s just what you do. Forever, if you want. If you love it. It becomes your life. Flamenco por vida!” –my flamenco instructor
If you look at it one way, I stumbled into flamenco lessons totally by accident.
After I moved out, I needed more freelance work — and fast. A friend who works at an ad agency set up a happy hour with me and some of his coworkers to see if I could become a freelance advertising copywriter.
About two minutes into the conversation, I realized that I might as well have been asking if I could do freelance medical work. These people had bachelor’s and master’s degrees in advertising. Polished portfolios, too.
“I’m so embarrassed,” I told my friend when the copywriters went to get drinks. “I’m so out of my element.”
“Then talk about something else. I don’t know; ask [one of them] about her flamenco lessons.”
I instantly dropped the professional façade I’d been working. “You’re taking flamenco lessons?” I gushed to the copywriter when she returned. “That’s so cool! I’ve always wanted to take flamenco lessons!”
“You should totally do it,” she said. “The studio where I take them is awesome. The instructor is wonderful.”
A few weeks later, when my income situation began stabilizing, I signed up for Intro to Flamenco at the studio. Around that time, I decided to visit my cousin and his wife in San Antonio. Conveniently, the US distributor for Miguelito’s, a brand of flamenco shoes, operates out of San Antonio.
From September 29:
While in San Antonio on Saturday, I bought flamenco shoes. It went a little something like this:
Man with mullet: What size do you need?
Me: Eight and a half to nine.
Mullet: What kind of flamenco shoes do you want?
Me: Um…what kind do you have?
Mullet: Leather and suede.
Me: Oh. Leather.
Mullet: We don’t have leather in your size.
Me: Then suede.
Mullet: We don’t have suede in your size.
He procured a pair of black suede flamenco shoes that were a half size larger, telling me that the brand ran small. Alas, I had half an inch of space behind my heel when I tried them on.
Crap, I thought as my heart sunk. Now I’ll have to buy flamenco shoes online and pay for shipping for something that might not fit, and I’ll have to send it back.
Then he said words that were so awesome, I hadn’t even dared hope to hear them.
“We might have them in red.”
My mind flashed back to my early childhood, to being obsessed with The Wizard of Oz and wanting more than anything to have a pair of red heels. Even now, I spend 99% of my time in basic black shoes, but oh, the red ones make me so happy.
“I’ll take them!” I said.
“You should probably try them on,” he pointed out.
They fit perfectly. I worried about the suede, but he assured me it was easy to clean. Then he got this big grin on his face. “You look like Dorothy!” he crowed. “If you click your heels three times, you could go home!”
“That’s the plan,” I said.
I tried them on again this afternoon. Verona kept sniffing the leather, wagging her tail. She rarely wags her tail at unusual smells.
I wore them to class for the first time tonight. They were magnificent. I didn’t want to take them off. Ever.
I might only wear red suede shoes now for the rest of my life.
But it wasn’t just the shoes. Or the frilly skirts (I somehow acquired six — and a second pair of red suede shoes — with alarming rapidity). It was the dancing itself. It was so tough. I told people, “Flamenco is the one thing that I’m not that good at and yet I’m determined to keep doing.” It was tough, and yet so familiar. Like discovering an ancient truth about myself that had always been lurking just under the surface.
On October 6, I joked on Facebook:
I have decided that flamenco dancing is basically yelling with your feet. Which is great for me, as I hate yelling with my mouth.
I look forward to communicating my frustrations with people exclusively through footwork from now on.
Later in the comments, I explained my newfound passion a little more articulately:
My flamenco instructor mentioned yesterday that her style is different from “modern” flamenco with its twistiness and flashiness / flourishes. It’s more traditional. I just love it. It’s a dance that finds grace through strength. No offense to ballet and ballroom dancing, which are beautiful, but I love flamenco because it makes being tough incredibly beautiful. And you essentially use your body as a percussion instrument. I’m not just a drummer — I am the drums. SO AWESOME.
As I wrote earlier, if you look at it one way, I stumbled into flamenco lessons totally by accident. But if you know more of the story, it becomes clear that this was something always orbiting around my heart. It just had to change trajectories…or I had to be pushed out of place to collide with it.
It probably all started with Strictly Ballroom. That’s not even real flamenco, but to a sixteen-year-old three-quarters-Mexican girl in McAllen in 1994, it was close enough.
I wanted to take ballroom dance classes so badly after that, but there was nowhere to take them. Then I went to Harvard — and the thing about Harvard is that there is no amateur hour. I stopped in at one of the ballroom dance group’s classes, and they were all practically professional dancers. No Intro to Anything there.
But the more I took Intro to Flamenco, the more I realized that real flamenco is nothing like Strictly Ballroom — and yet exactly like it. In flamenco (well, the intro class at least), you dance by yourself. You don’t have a partner. You don’t need a partner. None of this finding-love-on-the-dance-floor bullsh*t that I fell so hard for as a teenager and could never conjure into reality as an adult.
What flamenco is, however, is something you must do without fear.
Before I watched Strictly Ballroom, I hadn’t realized how afraid I was of life. That movie gave me my first taste of fearlessness. Even all these years later, I still find myself yelling like Fran in my darkest, most frustrated moments. “You’re pathetic and you’re gutless,” I yell at the ghosts in my life, the barbed and vicious memories of everything that’s ever held me back. “You’re a gutless wonder. Vivir con miedo es como vivir a medias!”
And that usually makes me feel a little better — but not nearly as good as that moment when Doug Hastings, having been ignored the whole damn movie and about to watch his son make the same mistake he did, yells out:
We had the chance, but we were scared. We walked away! We lived our lives in FEAR!
When you’re in the flamenco studio, there’s no fear. There’s no quiet meekness. Not if you want to dance right. Your feet have to be loud, your arms have to be curved, your knees have to be bent, and you have to be strong and graceful and totally unafraid.
My freshman year at Harvard, I may have discovered that ballroom dancing wasn’t in the cards, but flamenco was still there, in the background, beckoning me, as if saying, “Just wait. We’ll meet again. I promise.”
From October 22:
It’s late at night and I need to go to sleep — which is why it’s time for another story.
In this week’s flamenco class, the instructor said, “I’m not sure how many of you have actually seen a real flamenco performance, so I have a surprise for you.” (You can probably guess the surprise.)
Of course, I was psyched to see a live flamenco performance (and to rest for a minute; my GOD, class was tough this week). But watching her was incredible in ways I did not expect. I’ve been thinking of how to describe it for over a day and I finally had to just sit down and try, which is why I am writing this at 1 a.m.
When I think “dance performance,” I think of the cold, precise elegance of ballet, or the big smiles and flashy, flowing costumes of ballroom dance. But flamenco is not like that. There is no love story being told. She danced by herself to his music, both of them improvising as she whipped around and stomped on the floor, as if she was dancing with the music itself — like a little kid dancing with an imaginary partner, only with her sharp strong movements, I was totally willing to believe that imaginary partner was real. And I’ve written before how I love flamenco because it’s basically percussion — you’re drumming with your feet and, to some extent, your hands — but that night, as she leapt around on the floor, the wood planks visibly shaking under her feet, it was as if she was using the noise to call up ghosts, ancestors, things long dormant underground, telling them to come up, damn it, and dance with her, and be a part of the music, part of the unseen partner.
Tonight, that memory spurred another memory. (How glorious, to remember anything happy; my non-work-related memory has been in an abysmally thick fog lately, and every time I remember anything good — song lyrics, a book or movie plot point, something fun that happened with friends — it’s like resurfacing after being underwater for too long.)
So: what I remembered tonight is the first time I visited the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. It was during my freshman year at Harvard. Gorgeous and eclectic, that museum is one of my favorite spots in Boston. You genuinely don’t know what you’re going to see around the corner: what era the art’s going to be from, how it’s going to be arranged, etcetera. And as I was getting ready to leave, I turned around the corner on the first floor…
…and saw El Jaleo by John Singer Sergeant.
Let me clarify: I saw this massive, wall-sized painting of a flamenco dancer and musicians, surrounded by a huge gold frame yet shrouded in darkness, like it was an actual window looking in on a late evening performance hazy with wine and smoke. It was at the end of the hall, but no one was in front of it. As if it had been set up and left there specifically for me to find it.
It hit a chord deep inside my heart. I’d never seen a work of art before and felt so drawn to it, so tempted to climb inside it if I could.
It would be easy to say, “Well, there’s a simple explanation. You just like stuff like that. You’re drawn to it. You liked that painting, and you want to learn more about your family’s Spanish origins, so of course you’re doing flamenco.” But I can’t help but think that it’s not that B follows A, but that sometimes the rocks under our feet align so we stumble onto exactly the right path. I think of that painting — how I loved it so, how I still have a magnet of it on my fridge — and how, 19 years after stumbling upon it, things aligned in a way that let me stumble into a flamenco class, where I have shoes — red Dorothy shoes — that yell louder than I ever will. Where, for an hour each week, the fog shifts direction and I forget about everything that’s wrong and painful instead of everything that’s good and lovely. And where, for the first time in years, I am okay with being not perfect (and I am really, really not perfect or even that great at flamenco yet), because ultimately, even if you know the steps and the dances, it’s still improvised. And all there is is this moment, of striking the floor with my feet, calling to the ghosts and being a part of them, of remembering the past without being hurt by it, and trusting that even if I forget the next step, I’ll remember the one after that. That no matter what is around the corner, it will be astounding. And if it’s not, I’ll just improvise.
Flamenco isn’t for everyone. But I think this philosophy, of turning inward and finding something that’s always called to you and finally embracing it, is applicable to anyone going through a tough time. Doing that can give you such power during a phase of deconstruction and destruction. It lets you instill that long-term fascination and love into the foundation of who you’re becoming.
I had my last Intro to Flamenco lesson for the semester — and, according to the calendar, the year — this week. I want to move up to the next level so badly. The instructor says it’s much more challenging than Intro to Flamenco. But I’ve come this far. I show up every week in black clothing and red lipstick and red shoes, looking like some kind of giant irate grackle. Or like some kind of angry Spanish phoenix, still covered in soot and blood — but rising from the ashes. And still rising. Por vida.
From November 10:
Tonight in flamenco class, I channeled my inner April Ludgate and decided I was Not Messing Around. I got to class early. I got a space at the front of the room, instead of hiding in the back as usual. I practiced my floreos — too much, as it turns out, since my left thumb and forearm got numb 15 minutes into class. (They’re still numb, in fact.) But still, I threw myself into it. All in.
“Have you all seen Maleficent?” the instructor asked at one point.
I didn’t say anything. I haven’t seen it, partially because I don’t think Angelina Jolie glowering in pale make-up could do my favorite villain justice. Maleficent is the worst, and that makes her the best. She’s delightfully evil and wonderfully vicious. You almost want to root for her.
The instructor moved her arms upward. “When you do this, it’s like in the movie — when her wings, like giant bird wings, are rising up.”
Wait. Giant bird wings? This is a philosophy I can get behind.
An hour later, I left class thinking about how flamenco is one of the few things in my life — like, ever — that I am not that good at, but damn it, I am determined to get better. And I was so determined that I forgot to change out of my flamenco skirt and ended up wearing it to HEB.
That was fun for about, well, no time at all. I moved through the aisles slouching, trying to hide under my own cardigan, embarrassed at how costume-y I looked.
I turned the corner and saw the entertainment section. Sleeping Beauty was on. It was the scene where Prince Phillip has to slay the dragon that Maleficent has become. She’s not charmingly horrible anymore — she’s giant and terrifying. SHE is Not Messing Around.
But neither is Phillip, and neither are the three fairies. And neither are the dragon-fighting kids in my books. And neither am I.
Because, when you slay a dragon, you have to be all in. You can’t doubt yourself. You can’t worry about failing, or getting burned, or your arm going numb. You just have to keep fighting until it’s done.
And together, a lone HEB employee and I watched the scene where Phillip and the three fairies slayed the dragon.
The employee turned around and laughed when he saw me. “It’s a good movie, right?” he said.
I replied, “That was my favorite part.”
Copyright 2014, Sarah Rodriguez Pratt. All rights reserved.
“Everyone has at least one story that will stop your heart.”
“These things are true and I’ve seen them for myself.”
–Claudia Shear, Blown Sideways Through Life
About a month and a half after I left my husband, I went in for my annual appointment, where I honestly did not expect to hear the words “There’s a lump on your thyroid.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“There’s a lump. I can feel it. Let’s get you in for a sonogram, and we’ll go from there.”
Everything happened very, very fast — and yet not fast enough. Austin Radiological Association got me in that day, but I had to wait three days to find out the sonogram results. It was part-cyst, part-something else. The radiologist who looked at the sonogram said it was under the limit of blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda, so no further whatever recommended. My doctor’s office said that if I wanted to take the conservative approach, I should make an appointment with a thyroid surgeon for a second opinion.
I had no idea what my health insurance was going to look like in two months. My current plan was platinum-level, thanks to my soon-to-be-ex. If I needed surgery or something beyond that, it wouldn’t be cheap; but at least it wouldn’t destroy me financially.
I made an appointment with the surgeon’s office. The soonest they could see me was in a week.
So I waited.
A week is an awfully long time to wait to hear the truth about your health. By the day of the appointment, I’d had terrifying possibilities hanging over me for almost two weeks. I was scared. I was exhausted. I still didn’t have a job. And if this was serious…
“You can’t think like that,” one of my friends said. “Stay positive.”
“I just know this is going to be nothing,” another friend replied. “I can feel it.”
Wrote another, “There is nothing actionable for you to do until you have the results. That’s the purely logical way to look at it and most likely totally useless in staving off the worrying. It is what I would be telling myself in between internet binges on useless medical sites that would drive me deeper into a morass of fear.”
Oddly enough, that philosophy actually made me feel a lot better.
I tried to stay upbeat. I joked to people that I wanted to give the lump a name so it wouldn’t seem so scary, but all the names I thought of were for terrifying characters like Sauron and Voldemort, so I finally decided to call the lump Garfield. It was found on a Monday. It loves lasagna. It hates Nermal. That usually made people laugh. Which was good, because the magnitude of the incident was so huge that — on top of being scared of the f*cking lump on my thyroid — I was scared that I was going to start frightening people away with my giant, super-serious grown-up problems.
My appointment with the surgeon was first thing in the morning on a Friday. I glanced constantly at my watch because I had to get back to my freelance work as soon as I could. I hoped the appointment wouldn’t take long. I figured it wouldn’t. She’d feel my throat and tell me to stop wasting her time, and that would be that. I know how surgeons are. My ex’s surgeon yelled at me after he had a small lump removed; he asked me a question about the last time my ex had lumps removed and I’d completely forgotten about the previous procedure, and he thought the proper response was to yell at me.
The thyroid surgeon was nothing like that. She was incredibly warm, friendly, knowledgable, and more willing to explain things than most of the medical professionals I’ve ever met. She told me about thyroids and thyroid lumps in clear, easy-to-understand phrases.
Then she put her hand on my neck.
“I’m going to get my sonogram machine,” she said after a moment.
My heart sunk.
A few minutes later, I was wiping cold liquid off my neck and trying not to scream over the image I was staring at. It was the first print-out of the lump that I’d actually seen. The thing was over a centimeter wide. Over a centimeter. I’d known its diameter, but there’s a difference between hearing a number and looking at an actual print-out of the lump inside your body that shouldn’t be inside your body.
“I’m just going to do a quick biopsy,” she said as the sonogram machine was wheeled out and another machine was wheeled in.
I despise needles, so I’ll spare you from the details of the procedure. Just know that I was very lucky that it only took three needle insertions (one for the local anesthesia and two to take samples). She said some patients needed multiple samples taken in order to determine what was in the mass; I think the most she ever had to do was eight. EIGHT.
The third and final stab was the worst as far as pain went. But lying on a table, knowing a huge needle was in my throat and that I had to hold perfectly still or it would have to be inserted into my throat again – discomfort laced with sheer terror is a truly unpleasant mixture.
With a small bandage on my throat and the local anesthesia subsiding, I drove back to my apartment. I tried to work, but panic was overwhelming me.
“I just wish I had someone with me during all of this,” I’d told a friend recently. “Not a boyfriend or a husband — just someone to pat me on the head and tell me it’s all going to be okay.”
She gently reminded me, “Even if you had that, though, you’d still have to go through this alone.”
I wrote on Facebook:
I want to cry but I can’t because of the pain. I feel really alone, I’m really scared, and I’m really really angry. YES, I’m grateful they found it when they did. YES, I know worse things are happening to people around the world every day. But I could have done without this right now on top of everything else.
By noon, I was a mess of nerves and tears. I didn’t know what else to do, so I did the only thing I could think of: I texted my mother. “I’m coming home for the weekend,” I wrote. I don’t think I even asked if I could. I’m pretty sure I just said I was coming home.
“Of course u are always welcome,” she wrote back.
I texted my soon-to-be-ex, asking if he could drop off the dog with him for a few days. He agreed.
I took all the laundry in my hamper and threw it into a suitcase. I’d wash it once I got to McAllen. Surely I could find some outfits among all of that.
I hit the road in the late afternoon, stopping only to go to the bathroom and get dinner. Around 10 p.m. at a Whataburger, I took a picture of myself in the car, the bandage still clearly visible on my throat. I wrote:
Tired-as-hell selfie in a Whataburger parking lot, because I have a Band-Aid on my neck — but I’m still going.
By the time I got home, I was so tired that I almost fell asleep on the dining room table. I was shredded. I’d only been sleeping two to three hours at a time since I’d moved out. And yet, the more I talked to my mom, the more I woke up.
We talked until 1:30 in the morning, then watched TV for another half an hour. And that night, we had a conversation that changed my life.
Before I go further, let me say that my mother is an extremely private person. Out of respect to her, I’m not going to reveal what we talked about. But I will say that it was a story about our shared past that I’d never heard before. A story that explained one of the darkest, most painful things we’d ever experienced. It was like hearing her superhero origin story. And as I watched her recall the incident, I suddenly understood so much about her. I suddenly knew the truth. It was like seeing the source code to the universe.
She told me more painful truths the next day. It was a weekend of sharing. But I will never forget what we talked about that first night. And now, two months later, I look back and I can’t help but wonder if I ever would’ve heard that story if I hadn’t had a lump on my thyroid and ran home out of fear. And I wonder if, somewhere buried within every truly terrifying and / or horrible incident in our lives, there isn’t some moment of grace where we finally learn the truth. A small gift among the wreckage.
I drove back on Monday. The next day, I was having lunch with a good friend when my realtor (who I met through said good friend) called. She wanted to know if I could drop by the house for a final look-through before it went on the market.
My friend and I put lunch away and drove to the house. We said hello to my ex, who was gracious and polite. (We were — and still are — as amicable as possible.) I was in the bedroom, looking at the new coat of paint, thinking of how it looked exactly like we had when we moved in — as if we’d never even been there at all — when the phone rang.
“Hi, this is [the surgeon].”
“Well, we have the results of your thyroid biopsy.”
All the flowers bloom again.
The voice on the phone continues. “Now, there is a five percent chance that the test is incorrect. But considering the shape of the mass, and the lack of calcification, I think it’s fine to recheck it in six months. Now, if you really want to get it removed — ”
“NO. That’s fine.”
“Okay. Great.” [friendly laughter] “You can check this off of your list of things to worry about.”
I hung up the phone. My friend, who heard my voice, wandered into the bedroom to check on me.
“It’s benign,” I croaked out.
She screamed and grabbed me. “I told you it was going to be nothing,” she said kindly against my ear.
“You were right,” I responded, the tears flowing freely now.
The realtor came into the bedroom to check on us. I told her. She engulfed me in a huge hug. Then my ex walked in; more hugging all around.
“How relieved are you?” someone asked me.
I didn’t know how to answer that. The truth is that relief didn’t settle in for days. Weeks, actually. I was still wound up so tightly from the stress of the divorce that I didn’t know how to process this one victory.
Eventually, I processed it, though it freaked me out. Hell, when I think about it now, I cry — partially with gratitude that things didn’t turn out worse, and partially with terror over how things could’ve turned out.
But there’s no point in thinking about how bad it could’ve gotten. If I’m going to do that, I might as well go on an internet binge on useless medical sites.
So I am grateful. And not just because Garfield turned out to be benign. I am grateful that I finally learned the truth about something very painful from the past. Even if it took two weeks of sheer terror, three huge needles, and a seven-hundred-mile drive.
Because it was worth it.
Copyright 2014, Sarah Rodriguez Pratt. All rights reserved.