The One About Underwear (My Addiction [to underpants] Story)

Every once in a while I feel productive and tidy up around my room. No, this doesn't mean I throw out the trash. No, I don't organize my scattered textbooks, no I don't do laundry, I don't collect the strings of multicolored yarn, I don't stack the confettied sheet music, I don't make my bed, I don't take the dishes downstairs.

I reorganize my clothing.

I go through my dresser and remove clothes I don't wear and put them in a bag in my closet, inevitably finding something in that bag that I just know I'll want to wear soon so I put that in my dresser. I rehang various cardigans and dressers, refold shirts that I had planned to wear but then discarded and stuffed in the incorrect drawer. I marvel at the amount of clothes I own, and marvel even more at the fact that when my choreographer asks for a certain color or type of clothing, I still manage to have none of it.

This process happened today, and I ended up focusing on my undergarments. I decided to do what they tell you and actually hang all my bras up, which turned out to be a very good idea. For one thing, it's supposed to be good for them. For another, bras are very awkward to fold or place in a drawer, and take up a lot of room. Room that could be better used for my growing underpants collection.

This is my inspiring story about underpants.

My mom was never that "girly," meaning she didn't wear makeup and didn't, as far as I know, buy fancy underpants and bras and dresses and crap like that. She wore jeans and t-shirts and had crazy frizzy hair and beat people up. My older sister was always a huge tomboy, especially around the time I hit puberty. So even though no one ever said anything of the sort, I got the idea that if I were remotely interested in anything feminine, I would be a disappointment to them both. It wasn't "cool" to like feminine things such as underwear and makeup and dresses.

I literally wore the same underwear from around age 11 to age 19. A pack of Hanes. I was wearing the wrong bra size for years because when my sister took me bra shopping for the first time I wanted to get in and out of there as fast as possible. Neither her nor my mom was good at the whole puberty thing, so I was left to figure out my bra size myself (I had deemed underwear to be a "taboo" topic of conversation, and yet also a sign of weakness if I didn't understand it). Unfortunately for me, my breasts developed quickly and not wearing the right bra was more than a little uncomfortable. Fortunately for me, I was always at ballet anyway and didn't have to wear real bras.

Anyway, I didn't buy myself underwear until I got my first boyfriend at age 19. He was way more interested in undergarments than I was, and it was under his encouragement that I started to buy new underwear.

Now, I don't regret any of those early purchases, but here's the thing: I was basing my purchases around his taste's, which were actually very different than my own. So the underwear I'd buy would almost be a compromise, with some being my own taste and some definitely being his. Nevertheless, I discovered that it is surprisingly uplifting to be wearing something cute and comfortable under my clothes.

It has taken me a very long time to be comfortable with my underwear. That is a very odd sentence, but let me explain it even further:

Perhaps because of all my misconceptions as a child, I've always felt out of place with any form of femininity. Dresses, lace, pink, makeup, you name it. Not only was it uncool to be interested in it, but it just didn't look good on me anyway.

Like if I try to look like a beautiful woman, it will just be even more obvious how not beautiful I am.

That is an untrue belief, but one that has haunted me all my life, and still haunts me today. I remember the first time I actually wore shorts in public (also age 19), the first time I started wearing dresses even when I didn't have to (18 or 19), the first time I wore a loud shade of pink (19), and the first time I wore heels (20).

Last week I almost bought some clip-on bows. A voice in my head scorned, "Really? Bows? You really wanna make it obvious how not cute you are by putting something cute in that choppy hair of yours?" I didn't buy the bows.

My first boyfriend definitely boosted my self esteem in my appearance and yes, my femininity. But every ounce of femininity was geared towards his taste. I hadn't developed my own taste yet, and so I adopted his without much thought. And when I felt uncomfortable, I blamed it on me just not being pretty enough to do justice to pretty things.

When my boyfriend and I broke up, I bought a bunch of new underwear and bras. I focused on comfort, indulging my own color and style preferences because there was no one else who mattered anymore. I got things I knew I'd actually wear on a regular basis. And it felt so good.

Underpants are adorable and comfortable and bras are stylish and also comfortable and sometimes they can color coordinate and somethings they match perfectly and even if they don't, who cares?

This is why underwear is so important to me, and I don't care how stupid it sounds at this point. If your underwear doesn't fit, the rest of you is going to be uncomfortable too. If you aren't comfortable with the most intimate parts of yourself, how are you supposed to be okay with anything else? You should be comfortable with every layer, and that comfort can only come from you, because ultimately you should be spending the most time in your underpants. No one else walks around in them all day. Hopefully.

Okay I've gotten a little off track, but bear with me.

It is not a weakness to like feminine products. It is not slutty to wear fancy underpants. It is not stupid to wear a nice dress on a completely average day. It is not shameful to wear a bow in your hair even if you have a bad haircut.

Sometimes the best part of my day is picking my panties. Sometimes the smallest, silliest thing can bring a bit of happiness. Because when life is falling to pieces around me, at least I can say that I'm wearing soft, pretty, and well-fitting underpants.

--Dexter

Video Games Made Me a Better Musician? AKA Dexter's Dexterity

I just finished reading a fascinating book about video games called Grand Theft Childhood: The Surprising Truth about Violent Video Games and What Parents Can Do by Lawrence Kutner, PhD, and Cheryl K. Olson, ScD. Essentially it's all about the effect video games have on children, and whether or not they are a bad influence. Spoiler alert: they're not. But anyway, you should read the book if you're interested.

But a section towards the end sparked my interest in another way. It talked about how some athletic kids will play sports games, see a move on the screen, and then go practice it. The video game itself didn't teach the kids the move because doing it with your fingers and doing it with you're feet are two completely different things, but it still motivated the kid to go master it.

But you know what is extremely similar to playing video games? Playing the harp.

Hear me out.

Video games are all about finger dexterity. Whether you're using a controller or a keyboard, you have to move your fingers in very specific directions and for very specific amounts of time. I grew up playing flash platforms on the computer, moving around with WASD as well as using other buttons to sprint, attack, use items, etc. etc. It's taken me a long time to get used to using controllers, but essentially they're the same as well. You train yourself to use specific fingers for specific buttons, and eventually you don't have to think about it anymore.

The same goes with simple typing: after a while you don't have to think about the exact location of a key before you press it. I'm going to toot my own horn and say that I am a fantastic typer. I haven't speedtested myself in a while, but I average about 104 words per minute. I love typing. I love the sound of the keys and the feel of them under my fingertips, and how words just magically appear on the screen. It's awesome and satisfying (especially since I always had such bad handwriting).

Playing the harp, as well as the piano and perhaps other instruments, is also all about finger dexterity. You have to be able to move your fingers independently of each other. Your right hand is playing a melody and your left hand is playing accompanying notes that might be in a completely different pattern. I know, I know, it's not exactly the same as a video game. But it uses a lot of the same skills.

So does that mean that a pro-gamer could jump on the harp and be a master? Not necessarily. Other things are required. The same goes for gaming: just because you're good at the harp doesn't mean you'll be good at video games.

BUT.

I've got a crazy proposition for you. Video games might be a way for a child (or adult) to practice dexterity that could also be used for musical instrumentation. Maybe it wouldn't actually work, but it's a thought. An interesting concept to keep floating around the world.

All of this comes from the fact that I'm good at finger dexterity, whether it's applied to typing, video games, or harping. I have no idea if dexterity learned from one specific area could be applied to something different, but I don't think it should immediately be naysayed. Kids who think they suck at something, and yet excel in video games, shouldn't be encouraged to consider themselves failures. No, they may not be able to make a living off of video games. But a LOT of skill goes into gaming, and a LOT of that skill can be used outside of the game world.

This post is all over the place. I'm trying to be inspirational and scientific at the same time.

Do what you love and give yourself credit where you deserve it and play video games and play music and go crazy and try new things and find ways to turn what you love into something amazing and yeah that's all folks.

--Dexter

My Life's Ambition is to be a Poor Starving Artist

There are a lot of preconceived notions about dancers of any kind, let alone those who dare to study it in college. There are a lot of people who talk about those notions, making fun of them or doing their best to correct them.

And a lot of people do it incorrectly.

I'm not going to name names or point fingers, but there are a lot of artists who assume everyone else has the same goals as they do. This has been on my mind lately, and just gets louder and louder in my head the more I think about it and dance through life.

I remember when I was a senior in high school I went to the dentist and the nurse asked me what I was going to study in college. I said dance. She said, and I quote, "Oh so you're going to be on Dancing With The Stars? You should do that."

...No.

Not that there aren't good dancers on that show (although I wouldn't know -- I've never seen it), but I'm not going to scrimp and save and starve and slave for four years in college just to go on some reality dance competition money crazed TV show. Sorry.

There are a lot of actual dancers who dream of being on Broadway or the Rockettes or something similar. They sometimes assume that this is "the ideal end for every dancer." Which it's not. Broadway is not my Valhalla, sorry. The people who dream of Broadway are the dancers who are also into musical theater and deal with so much drama on a day to day basis that performing it onstage is no big deal.

Okay so if I don't want to be on TV or Broadway, then I must want to be a teacher, right? Walk around with tiny ballerinas in pink tutus teaching them how to make their heels kiss in first position.

Been there, done that. No way do I want to do that for the rest of my life. Little dancers are adorable, and they absolutely benefit from creative movement classes (cause trust me, they aren't dancing when they're four years old), but I don't benefit from their creative movement classes. That sparks no fire in my soul.

Well okay, there's like, dance companies, right? But those are mainly ballet, right? What kind of dance do you do again? Ballet and what? Contemporary?

First of all dance companies come in all shapes and forms. And yes, I'm a major bunhead, but modern is the hot thing these days. And yes, there are plenty of modern dance companies. And yes, I could do that if I really really wanted. I've been told I have the talent for it, but honestly I don't have the drive. I'm far too lazy, far too weak, and rapidly losing the enjoyment of performing for an audience.

So if you hate teaching and you hate performing and you think you aren't built to dance, why the heck are you scrimping and saving and starving and slaving for four years doing just that?

I ask myself that far too often. I consider changing my major basically every semester, but then admit that I'm too far gone to turn back. There's a reason I've been dancing since I was three years old (excuse me, "moving creatively"), even if I don't know exactly what that reason is anymore.

In high school I lived for performance season, but in high school I had something to perform for. Briarwood Ballet is part of a church, and every day in class we were taught to praise with our dancing. Our performances were especially for worship. We always told a story that was important to me on a personal basis, even if my only role was to play "springtime" or a "village maiden." I was still part of something.

Now I just spend more time sitting in a dressing room with a bunch of girls who gossip and laugh and talk about things I don't understand. So often I feel no connection to the performance, or the dance, or my role, or whatever. And if I dare to find some sort of meaning, dancers around me destroy it with their complaining or joking or teasing of the dance itself.

I mean, I'm guilty of this I'm sure. Dancers love complaining. Heck, humans love complaining. I'm real good at it.

But anyway. It's just very hard for me to connect with a dance when everyone else is so disconnected.

Anyway, that's what kept me going through high school. Things change, I guess. These days depression is so big and so dark that it has encompassed even art.

And yet, I'm still doing it. I'm still fighting as hard as I can. Why?

Because art is important. Because when I was kid, that was one of the few things I could cling to and claim as my own. When I had absolutely no words, I could still say things with dance. Even if that's not necessarily true anymore, I'm willing to bet that there are kids out there just like me who have no voice but have so much to say. No, I don't want to be a teacher. But I want to study dance, to make it more accessible, more understood.

Back when I was engaged to a well-off man, I'd decided to not start making small independent Dance for Film pieces with whatever dancers happened to be passing through my area. "Art for art's sake."

But then my life turned around and I decided I needed to support myself (which is not a bad thing at all). But I didn't want to perform, didn't want to teach, didn't want to prostitute my dancing to the highest bidder. I just wanted to make art. I wanted to say something to whoever would listen. But how do you make a living off that?

This is what we affectionately call, "A Starving Artist."

My plan is to go to grad school and study interdisciplinary arts. Art for art's sake. Just keep going to school until I can be a fancy professor teaching passionate young college students, which means I'll also get to do whatever artistic endeavors I so desire (within reason). I will scrimp and save and starve and slave so that I may create art for art's sake.

Because art is important. It was important to my broken little girl self who didn't know what to do with her poor broken little body. To my awkward and anxious teenage self who didn't know how to say what was going on inside. To my sad and downtrodden college self who just wants to fuck around with art to see what happens and how far you can go and what all you can do and how much you can say and just what exactly hasn't been done yet.

And it's important to those drama divas who want to go on Broadway and those talented dancers who want to perform in companies and those cheerful movers who want to teach tiny dancers. Art is important because it can do so much.

Dear Yesterday

Captain,

Here is some of your stuff back. They are things I mainly liked because of their sentimental attachment to you, which obviously is now nonexistent. But they are also things I'd feel bad just ditching, because they belonged to you long before you met me.

You may notice that this is hardly everything you've ever given me.

Perhaps it's selfish of me, but there is no way I'm giving back everything. Most of it I enjoy completely separate from you, and forget there's even a connection unless someone asks where it came from. Then I laugh a little gleefully because it's mine now, and maybe that's wrong of me. Oh well.

No, there is no diamond ring in this box. I thought about giving it back, but then decided not to. If I had broken it off, I would. But I did not. You dumped me. When I put together this box of your stuff, I thought about giving it back again, but ultimately decided not to.

Oh, you. What an immature little boy you are. Or were, at least. It is unfair of me to assume you haven't changed.

Since making this box, I've discovered you've gotten engaged. Congratulations. I wish you and your girlfriend of three months a happy future, but somehow I doubt that's what will happen.

I'm trying not to be snarky and mean, I swear.

I wanted to thank you. As much as I hate to admit it, you helped me a lot during our years together. You were there for me though a lot of shit and made many things easier to bear. I really, really thought I loved you. And you certainly convinced me that you loved me.

But so many things were not okay with us and I am so, so, so glad you broke my heart before I married you. It was not okay for you to promise me the rest of our lives, because I believed you and gave you everything. I let you suck me dry because I thought I was doing it for love and for a relationship that was worthwhile.

I didn't realize how terrible our relationship was until it was over. You treated me like a child and then got upset when I grew up. You assumed I couldn't do things and then would get upset when I really couldn't. You kept trying to cure my introverted self while telling me how you liked me just the way I was. You talked of all the adventures we'd have together and then decided we'd stay in Birmingham forever, without ever even asking me. You kissed another girl, and I forgave you. All of these things I forgave, and I kept on loving you.

I don't want to hold grudges and cling to the past. But I had to acknowledge the wrongs that happened not only in order to handle it, but in order to learn. I don't want to have a string of broken engagements (like you *cough*).

I'm upset at how replaceable I was in your life. I'm upset at how much I gave you. I'm upset at how much you took. I'm upset at how much I trusted you.

I worry that you'll treat your fiancée the same way. But that's none of my business.

Despite all of these things, I am happy now. I am very happy. I'm happy with what I've accomplished and what I'm doing. I'm happy with the man I'm with now. Part of me wishes you're immobilized with regret and longing, but part of me hopes you're happy too.

Most of me just doesn't care and wants to be done with it.

This is just me, clearing the air and giving myself closure. This is not an opening for us to be friends or to talk or to meet up and settle things face to face. Hell. No. I really don't ever want to speak to you again.

But here's your stuff.

--Dexter