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The past several days I’ve been in what is best described as a funk. Moody, irritable, snapping at Joel or Phoebe over the littlest thing, bawling my eyes out for no reason whatsoever… Very unlike me. My life? Is really good. I have no reason to be feeling so down.

Tonight Joel, knowing how sad I’ve been all day, did his best to cheer me up. He brought home stuff for taco salad, watermellon and surprised me with one of my favorite movies, The Great Mouse Detective. After I ate dinner and 3/4ths of the the watermellon (not kidding) we snuggled and he teased me and tickled me until I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breath.

I don’t know that it fixed everything. I do know I’m fighting to be in a better mood though. I have so much to be grateful for. I’m trying to focus on all the amazing blessings I have in my life. It may not always be 100% effective at pulling me out of this funk but I’m not just going to lie back and let these feelings drown me.

However, when I can’t quite do it on my own, I’m so lucky to have an amazing husband who knows how to make me smile. And sometimes even laugh until my stomach hurts.

In the bottom of this box are dreams disguised as dance shoes and clothes. The shoes are loving worn out. Not quite with holes, just worn spots and discoloration where my toes used to rub the floor the most. They’re still good, I could still wear them. But I don’t. I don’t dance anymore.

There’s nothing in the world that makes me feel more alive than dancing. It’s the way my soul speaks. When I hear a song it’s rare that I’m not dancing to it. Only now I usually only dance in my head.

When I was younger I was a dancer. I danced all styles of dance but I wanted nothing more than to dance on pointe shoes. I took classes several days a week. When I wasn’t in class I was practicing for class. As a little girl my favorite places were the aisles of the grocery store. They were the best for practing spotting as I twirled. My mom didn’t seem to mind. At least she never stopped me. My mom was wonderful like that.

My dance teachers were some of my favorite people in the world. They were beautiful and when they danced it was like magic. They didn’t just perform steps, they sparkled. Dances weren’t just a series of steps put together, they were their feelings set to music.

One day the head of the studio called me into her office. I don’t remember why. I do remember her asking me what my goals were. Among other things I mentioned how much I wanted to dance en pointe. I don’t remember anything else she said in that meeting except for one thing. “You don’t have the feet for it.” Everything else is a blur. I don’t remember if I cried then. I don’t think I did. I don’t think I said much else at all. All I remember are those words and feeling like I’d been punched in the stomach. I don’t have the feet for it. Just like that.

I didn’t stop dancing then. It was several years before I stopped altogether. But a little part of me died that day. That dream was snatched right from under my nose by cruel genetics. To this day I cry if I see ballerinas dancing en pointe. Why did that have to be my dream when I wasn’t made able to do it? Cruel.

There are so many reasons that my dance dreams lie in the bottom of a box. Money, time and age are all factors. But packing up things to be put into storage I’m reminded of that moment. The moment one of my dreams died. I’m also reminded that I don’t dance anymore.

Alternate title: Sorry boys, I’m taken

Still blogging from my iPhone. I love the darn thing and would hate to live without it but blogging on here is soooo sloooow. It’s seriously making me stabby. Instead of bitching about how irritated I am with my lack of computer I’ll distract you with this hilariously cute papillon video.

Here’s hoping I stay sane until my life returns to it’s version of normal. Or just that I don’t call The Salvation Army to take away everything we own and start from scratch. I’m tempted.

Still without the internets over here so no Holland pictures. Today was spent with Phoebe at class, moving some last odds and ends and unpacking.

I can’t decide what’s worse, moving or unpacking. I’m leaning towards unpacking. At least with moving it’s fairly brainless tasks like lifting and walking. It’s exhausting but at least you don’t have to think very hard. With unpacking you have to figure out where to put every little thing. Will this fit? How does that look? Where’s the most logical place (you know, so it’ll be in the *best* place I can’t find when I’m looking for it later)?

We also didn’t have nearly as much time to pack as I would have liked since I got stuck in The Netherlands for almost a week. That means a lot of the stuff got thrown into random boxes to be sorted through later. Good times.

Also on the to-do list, painting the old apartment back to white at some point before Thursday. I really wish the other apartment complex’s management didn’t suck so much. If I’d have known we were going to move out after only one lease term I would have left the walls white. Oh well.

Tomorrow the guy is supposed to come out and turn on our Internet. Why someone has to physically come out I’ll never understand. I mean, obviously they own the Internet. You’d think they’d have figured out a way to do it digitally by now. What do I know though, right?

At least our tv is now set up. Putting on DVDs to play in the background makes unpacking so much more interesting. The time visiting with Joel is nice too. Without being able to bury my face in Twitter we talk a lot more. Who knew?

I hope things keep moving along quickly and we get settled in. We’re all tired and ready to be done moving.