let the sparks fly in 2013-2014

I ought to be doing my homework, but I am suddenly desirous of writing. So here I am.

Saturday morning started with Zach, my former student worker, coming over to meet Sheppy. I gave him my keys, ate a sandwich, washed my hair, changed into layers of cotton, and headed off to my fire dancing workshop!

The first hour was Maddie, our gregarious instructor, just talking about various props and how to use them. She handed out a chart with fuels, accessories, costume requirements, etc, and then passed around (unlit) props. She did not pass around her scimitar, sadly, but she did the fans. I am never doing fire fan. That is one terrifying prop. But I would do candle tray! And fire sword! And fire orb! (This is what a fire orb looks like unlit, for the record.)

The second half, we put trays of candle holders on our heads and practiced basic dance steps. I am ecstatic to say that I never once dropped my tray. I had to grab it once after a roll, but no drops, beeyatches. We never did light up (which is fine, because ack, still learning to balance), but it was a lot of fun. My dance teacher was there as well, and she giddily informed me that she was finishing up a choreography for March. Because we're going to dance this in our studio. OH MY GOD YES. I begged her for floor work. Half of what we learned in the workshop was how to get down on the floor and undulate hips, to roll in a complete 360, to get back up, to do a kneeling back bend, all with a metal tray on our heads. I. Loved. All of it.

Part of what made it so gratifying to me was the sheer amount of muscle it requires! I figured out pretty fast that the trick was to completely lock up that core and upper body, to lengthen the spine and lock it there. It's a trick I learned in marching band, and it's no joke. But the back bend requires, as Maddie said, "quads of steel," and most of the women there couldn't do it. Even Maddie can't. For once, being a dancing athlete has paid off! I often struggle with teaching bulk muscle to do little things, to jiggle, to bend and lengthen, all the little things that dancers can do naturally. (It's why I like dancing. It's great conditioning.) I was ecstatic coming out of that class.

Within 90 minutes, I was on the road to Charleston. I had new music and the high from the workshop and a giant soda, and the drive flew. I got to the halfway mark without even diving into the usual hard singalong (during which I blew out my voice again, as always). I was just so happy, between the going-to-Charleston and the dance workshop, that the 4.5 hour drive passed in a blur.

Once there, I dropped my stuff off, enthusiastically greeted the boy, and then we were off to get milkshakes and let him go play D&D with his friends. Fortunately, I'm friends with Ali, so Ali and I looked at her guns and poked at her crabby old lady cat and hung out until they were done. Ali also gave me new sheets! I NOW HAVE BEDSHEETS THAT AREN'T 20 YEARS OLD. I'm not kidding. All of my sheets are hand-me-downs from my parents, before they upgraded their bed. Before I left, I was sulking to myself about wanting good sheets and how I needed to hurry up and get married so I could have Aaron's brand new bed and brand new quality sheets. But now I have Ali's, which are soft and not eighties-tastic with bright geometric patterns. Can I just... go down there and stay, yet?

Church in the morning. His church is a lot dressier than mine, so I actually got to glitz up a bit. And wear my new hooker heels. Because... new heels, and they can pass for classy when they want to. In them, I'm tall enough that he can't hold things over my head! So we went to church and I was lost, and he showed me off and introduced me to pertinent people. But mostly, I nearly lost it when we bowed our heads and prayed, and I don't remember what the actual prayer was because I was too busy squealing and exulting that we were actually praying together. We were there for three hours, between the main service and then their version of Sunday School.

After that came the mall, with lunch, a stop at Zales for a quick question, and a cookie. We ran into Ali and Dmitri there, which was awesome. We walked around the entire mall because I wanted to break in my heels. Turns out, they put some awkward pressure right behind the ball of my feet, but they're suitable for wearing. Just maybe not six hours of wearing.

The rest of Sunday was naptimes and cuddle times and general lazing about, just how I wanted it. We were cuddling in bed, idly talking about church, and I said that when everyone was talking about miracles, I had been thinking about his time in Afghanistan. That he was unharmed and got home before the PTSD really took effect, more than it already had. And in talking, I found out that he doesn't remember the time he sat up in bed and asked me what the siren was outside. It was just a standard police siren, catching a red-light runner at the bottom of the hill. But it was enough that he got nervous in his sleep. And it's absolutely heartbreaking when the boring, mundane sirens of everyday emergency vehicles and construction equipment can make him completely freeze and look straight past me while still nervously asking what's going on, but a held hand, snuggle, and calm explanations can settle him in his sleep.

I don't need a dramatic, physics-defying miracle. I'm content with the ones I've got.

He went to work in the evening for a few hours, and I dicked around online and hung out with Aimee. He brought pizza and soda back with him, because cheese and grease are love. Monday was much the same, except that lunch was at a wing place with his two home teachers. We had a brief lesson in the parking lot, wherein I blurted something out about God liking weakness because in weakness he can showcase his glory, and surprised the two teachers. (It's 2 Corinthians 12:9, and it's popped up in my Facebook news feed since. Hm.)

The rest of Monday was spent hanging on each other, sleeping off our wings, and falling asleep when I should have been getting ready to leave.

I gave him the rings right before I left. It was... an oddly solemn moment. He promptly posted them on Facebook. Things are real now.

I left really, really late and didn't get back to Athens until almost midnight. The drive didn't hurt as much as it usually does--I listened to Thousand Foot Krutch's last album and a few songs stuck so hard that I put them on repeat one, and Be Somebody turned into a 45-minute contemplation of religion and talking out loud to myself to finish verbalizing my thoughts, and maybe when I get some time this weekend I'll write about them. I had to stop for a drink at the halfway mark, and immediately after that, I started up the singalong playlist and then cried my eyes out for 30 miles during Plumb. Of course.

Plumb has some amazingly deep lyrics, both spiritually and relationally. Sometimes both at the same time. It is a terrific way to punch me in the emotional gut. On the way back from Charlotte last month, we were singing it and I was warmed up enough to try belting, and Aaron got chills on his arms. Plumb is not playing around.

I can't listen much to Need You Now, because it reminds me too much of last January that I won't talk about and I get that sour, uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. But two others on that album...

Say Your Name was on. I sang as usual. And then I had one of those awful, brilliant, mind-blowing moments of clarity--

When will I realize
That look in your eyes
Won't come back

It's over. It won't come back. It's over. It's dead.

And I swear
I'm never gonna do this again

And I'm never going to go through that again.

I bawled like a fucking baby for 30 fucking miles. It was the good crying, the liberating crying, the kind with strained smiles and choked attempts at sing. It was rough and beautiful and I want to hug that song with everything I've got in me.

Chocolate and Ice Cream choked me up, but nothing like Say Your Name. That one's just cute.

And then Don't Deserve You came on. It always gets me. Always. It's the one that gave Aaron chills. It's a song, one of very few with Skillet's Fire & Fury being the only other one, that I can sing to both my god and my future husband and just typing that gave me chills, and needless to say I spent a good 25% of that late-night drive crying.

So of course, I got home and greeted my hysterical dog and called him to let him know I was there safely, and he asked how the drive went. "Well..."

Tuesday at work I was still pretty perky. Tuesday night I went dancing in the beginners' class to work on technique and picked up a migraine aura while doing my homework. Wednesday morning I cringed at the alarm clock, called in sick with a legit migraine and unpleasant dreams of dead cats and previous guys, and aside from a brief stop to take Sheppy out and eat and take more Advil, stayed in bed until 4pm when the thing vanished. Thursday I was fine, by Thursday afternoon I had another headache, and I stayed in tonight to do laundry, cook a real dinner, and drown the headache in caffeine. And, um, put my homework off until 12:30 like a champ, evidently.

It's really cold outside, it won't snow, and I am full-on into my usual raging hatred of winter. Rabble, rabble. I've turned my thermostat down to 66 and I won't run any lights or appliances unless I need them, but my bill is still going to be through the roof. It's almost enough to make a girl want to blow torch some icebergs.

Off to do homework.