Some people like Vegas, some people love Vegas, and some people think it’s the cesspit of all that is evil and wrong with our society. Temptation is laid out to trap you like a fish on a hook and drag you down into Hell. The Devil’s Den. Maybe that’s true, maybe it’s not. I’m not here to judge or guide so you need to take that up with your Momma and the Lord.
As for me, I love Vegas. I always have. I love the fact that you can eat in Paris and dance in Egypt in a 4 hour timespan. You can relax by a beach under a cabana and then eat at a 5 star restaurant and watch a magnificent show before you fall asleep.
As luck would have it, I was able to go to Vegas with a few couples over valentines weekend.
The main thing I like to do in Vegas is dance. It’s just been a while since I’ve danced all night in spiked heels so I felt like I needed a refresher. Two stepping in a country bar wearing your boots is leagues away from Vegas in heels at 2am. I needed to know that if I went low, low, low my pants wouldn’t split and my back wouldn’t snap in two. Or that I could even get up off the floor should I get down that low. Frankly, I’d rather come home from Vegas having needed bail money than a neck brace from a horrible dance move throwing me into traction. Priorities.
My first solution to this was to go into my bathroom and lock the door. I picked my bathroom because that’s the only place I could see myself in a mirror to try to gauge how stupid I looked. I would sneak in there after the kids were in bed and the husband was distracted. I’d click that lock as quiet as possible and turn the music down low. I’d wear my heels and my mommy spandex so the jiggling wouldn’t distract me (learned that gem in the first 5 minutes) and then I would play videos I had uploaded from Youtube. All I learned was that I did indeed look very stupid with all the moves, the moves had not changed in the last 10 years, and my heels made a loud enough banging noise on the tile that my husband would sometimes hear me over his loud action video games. Twice he ventured to knock on the door to ask if I was okay. All I could think to yell out was, “I need privacy, I’m trying to poop!”
I’m not sure how he related that to an oddly loud banging noise, but he swiftly went away. Sprinted away. Stayed away. In retrospect that is probably why he kept asking me if I needed to go see a doctor for a check up.
The Youtube videos didn’t work but my friend invited me to a burlesque class. This is where I found all the information that a woman needs to face any situation. It took two classes to discover an epic truth about life that all women need to be taught. Information that needs to be imprinted on our brains.
magicAll you need to be sexy and sassy is the BELIEF that you are sexy and sassy. I’ve heard this before but I always thought the sentiment came from people that were in fact NOT sexy and sassy. Kind of like giving a trophy to everyone instead of just the winners.
But it’s true. Belief. That’s it. That’s all you need. I’ll prove it.
I had no idea what to expect from a burlesque class. I kept it quiet as I was thinking it would be along the lines of those ‘pajama parties’ people throw sometimes. Fun and innocent yet with a thrill that you are doing something oh so naughty that people would judge you for if you say it out loud.
But that was not what this was. First of all it was held at a legitimate dance studio and was taught by a legitimate dance instructor that mostly teaches ballet. No one was dressed skimpy, we were all in our workout clothes.
I walked into class and our instructor was short and middle aged. Frankly, she did not look athletic and she did not strike me as attractive. It was the end of the day so her makeup was gone except for the dark smudges you get under your eyes from your mascara running down your face and exhaustion. Her hair was in a messy bun on top of her head. It wasn’t a fashionable messy bun, it was a birds nest of hair perched on the top of her head and would flop about as she talked in an unflattering manner. Her sweats were old and baggy, her shirt was loose and then tight in all the wrong spaces on her body.
I remember thinking that I had just wasted my money. Then the music started.
The music started and just with her going through the motions of getting us warmed up I was convinced she was the sexiest woman on the planet. The sexiest woman on the planet doing moves that were innocent enough to break out in front of any audience. I have no idea how she married sexy and innocent and fun into one miracle but she did. Oh my sweet goodness she did. If I had been a man, I wouldn’t have left that night without her phone number and a date. By the end of class I was convinced she could teach us all exactly what we needed to know to achieve a semblance of sexy and sassy as well.
I was going to rock these moves in Vegas as soon as I learned them.
But I still didn’t have the entire picture. I thought it was the moves. The skills. The steps she had to teach.
The next class rolled around and I was beyond excited. I stepped into class and we had a different instructor. Our original teacher had hurt herself so we had a replacement. Our replacement was a Ginger Goddess in bright blue spandex that molded to her perfect behind and toned legs. You could see every muscle on her leg defined. That was the first time I had seen muscles on a woman’s inner leg outlined. I didn’t even know that was possible. Her red hair shimmered in a perfect shiny sheet down her back, her makeup was done expertly and her lip gloss made her lips look bee stung. Her blue top molded to her upper torso and you could tell gravity had zero effect on her perky chest area and her arms were perhaps the best mix of slender, toned, lightly muscled beauty that I had seen on a person not on television.
JustDanceI remember thinking this class was going to be even better than the last one. Then the music started.
By the time warmup was over I knew that she had all the moves down to perfection, yet she didn’t have a drop of sexy or sassy in her perfectly sculpted body. The entire class I kept expecting her to bust out the sass, but all we got was perfection.
Perfection is not sexy. Perfection is coldly beautiful.
I don’t want coldly beautiful. I want a hot passion for life that explodes out of my eyes and fingers and soul. I wanted my frumpy middle aged instructor back.
So then the truth that every woman should know finally hit me. It’s not the moves. It’s not a secret step we need to learn. It’s not the perfection. It’s not the perfect body, the perfect makeup, the perfect outfit.
It’s just belief and passion.
When I packed for Vegas, I made sure to bring along my belief and passion. I also brought along my stretchy pants and a total willingness to make a fool out of myself on a dance floor. Mission accomplished.
It helps that the dance floors are dark in Vegas.