Jazz Shoes, The Big Question

After a wedding, a red-eye flight to New York, food poisoning, and the largest laundry pile ever witnessed by human eyes, I'm back into the dance groove. It got to the point it felt like my body didn't know what to do with itself. I swear, I was doing some weird, big arm, jazz hands, all over the place, interpretive jump all over the place on the way to the laundromat Saturday. Talk about dance withdrawal!

Good news, after my digestive pyrotechnics took a break, I pulled out the granny cart, hoofed it to the markets in Mission and commenced to maing yummy spicy Asian food. Taste of the week - Thailand yumminess! I was very proud of how a recipe I borrowed from SheSimmers worked out. My tastebuds were in heaven.

Anywho, jazz shoes. I want to take jazz classes. I really had a good time at the all you can dance event. The bigger the arms and the more hopping around involved, the happier a camper I am. So, I'm considering ordering a pair of jazz shoes. 

I know, dance identity crisis much? I'm not abandoning the barre -- it feels safe. However, there are so many flipping types of dance, that for some reason, I'm not too old farty to do, so I'm gonna indulge until the only thing I can do is hang out at the bar and be delicate.  Toe shoes are still in debate for me. They just don't seem to be that kind to the feet in the end. It's a lovely effect, but I guess I feel the dancer looks more ethereal if she can glide across the stage, and you can't really glide on your tip-toes. It's more like flitting. Spirited flitting, but flitting no less. 

Male dancers totally got the break in that area.

I went back to class Tuesday and successfully executed a pirouette (if you count dizziness afterwards as succesful). I came, I saw, I turn around quickly and didn't fall on my bum.

I have to go to the derm this week so I can't go to class. You know, the whole look nice for the wedding thing. I swear. What's next?