“I feel so in my body,” says the dancer in leg warmers.
She’s stretching them, and her pointed toes, straight out in front of her — smack in the middle of the narrow hallway outside Studio 2, where I’ve just come out of my House dance class.
Sweat from my drenched t-shirt drips on her, which is fair because she positioned herself where I have to step over her.
If you’re so “in your body,” can’t you and your body, together, sense that you’re sprawled all over a footpath?
For people who display exquisite physical control when they execute a turn (while I spazz out across the floor and wobble like a jumbo egg wearing one high-heel shoe on an oil slick on a beanbag), these dancers have zero sense of where their trunks and limbs are placed.
Between classes, they nap spread-eagled across the floor.
They sit and text underneath the drinking fountain.
They do splits in front of the bathroom door.
They take up the whole bench with their Hello Kitty belongings and healthy snacks.
Yesterday, I asked a dancer to please move his cucumbers.
But back to this phrase “in my body.” What does that mean?
It clearly doesn’t mean “understanding how my body relates to this space and allowing a clear path of egress in case of fire.” So, then, what?
I hear it all the time lately in the personal development space.
A lot of coaches say they’ll help you feel more “in your body.”
Are people excited for that? Do they pay for it? How come?
When are you NOT in your body?
When you’re “out of body”?
Is it when you float above yourself and pretend a horrible experience is happening to someone else?
That’s what I do when I’m with my dad at a restaurant and he insists on asking the waitress her name, first and last, where her parents are from, is she muslim, does she know she’s probably of Jewish origin, in fact he’s certain of it and can prove it by looking up her name on sephardim dot com, if only he knew how to get google on his iPhone, because AOL won’t let him, and could he please have more ice water?
While that’s going on, while my dad is costing a very patient waitress a night’s worth of tips from customers who are waiting for bread, I leave my body and watch from the ceiling.
So maybe that’s being not in your body.
Or maybe you’re not in your body when you’re watching yourself do weird shit and asking “who am I?”
Like me, in the late 90s, when I was dating a married salsa instructor, going to steel-door-enforced dance clubs in the South Bronx where people shot each other, and eating all my meals at Dallas BBQ.
Is that being not in your body?
Because generally, if you have a body, and you’re alive in there, you’re in your body. Right?
I can feel mine breathing. I can feel it walking. I can feel it stub its toe or bump into doorways. How do you get more in it than when you’re in it?
Why do you want to?
Maybe if I were more in it, I wouldn’t crash into stuff.
But I still don’t get that phrase. And I wouldn’t pay for it.
Are you “in your body”?
Does that really mean anything?
What other popular phrases bug you right now?
TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS.