“You’re a cockroach, dying, your insect legs crumbling into dust. Now feel yourself ascending to cockroach heaven.
“You’re a tumbleweed rolling in the wind. Feel the wind. Woosh.
“Everyone have their egg? Good now you’re going to try and balance it vertically on the floor,” my high school modern dance teacher instructed.
Each week I spent an hour or so learning modern dance by pretending to be something. This didn’t sit well with me. Not quite acting, not quite dance technique, this class felt like nothing. Yet, I didn’t have a choice. Quitting modern meant quitting everything and I wasn’t yet ready for that.
“What. This is so stupid,” I grumbled to my friend as we watched our raw eggs wobble and roll. And what was the point of this exercise anyway? Sure I didn’t enjoy the roach bit, but at least it was movement, this was sitting on a floor. Was this about patience, a lesson about futility, or were we actually supposed to try and balance an egg?
In front of me, I spied a tiny hole in the marley. I set my egg in it and quietly sat back. Without a purpose to the activity I couldn’t see that it mattered how it was accomplished. Plus, I was done with this.
That was my last modern class. That day, during class, a few minutes after the egg incident I was told to leave. Which made me quite happy. It was what I wanted.
Sometimes, this is what you have to do. You have to jump over the fence in order to look at the other side. Walk on the grass because it’s grass. You have to tell work “I won’t be able to make it in today” and then lay by the pool for your own sanity. Sometimes you have to proclaim someone wrong because having authority doesn’t make someone right about everything. You have to demand “how” to a question you know can’t be answered because it should be answered.
I don’t rebel often because you can’t take it lightly. You have to be willing to accept the consequences. You have to stand behind your actions. Yes, it’s a little bit of temper and fighting against modern dance is hardly a world-changing cause, but stopping isn’t an option. That’s an action I couldn’t stand behind.
Without these past few weeks of rebellion I wouldn’t have ambled through the grocery store this past Sunday. I would have walked in with my list, gotten fed up half way through and walked out with whichever ingredients were already in the basket. Ambling in front of the cantaloupes I realized this was what I really wanted – not the standard apples.