I have always loved to dance, but used to be mortified at the thought of anyone seeing me bust my moves.  I would spend hours watching videos and practicing the Kid-n-Play, and that one fancy running man + the snake combo Vanilla Ice used to do, along with that left-right-left shoulder pump thing.  Despite my giant stature, high water pants and cascade bangs, I became such a masterful fancy foot, that I actually started feeling kind of cool (in the privacy of my own livingroom).  This lead to a recurring daydream:  Me in that cool floral spandex dress with shoulder pads.  The gym.  Lights down.  Music pumping.  My “jam” coming on, pushing me to really get my groove on as the entire school gathered ’round in delight, WOWed by my amazing skills.  After my performance, having that popular chola girl come up to “challenge” me to a dance duel.  Me kicking her ass, and then being invited to dance by her fine cholo boyfriend.

The school dance was approaching.  I kept practicing and had butterflies in my stomach when I thought about going.  I begged my mom until she finally said yes.  Then, the special day finally arrived.  I went to the gym, and stood against a wall, moving just a little bit to the beat.  I loved every song that was playing, but couldn’t bring myself to just go to the dance floor.  My movements started to get more and more intense, and the urge to just dance was painfully strong, but my guts were nowhere to be found.  When Rob Base’s “Joy & Pain” came on, the feeling was just too strong, and I finally broke… By “broke”, I mean, “I ran to the bathroom”, locked myself in the handicap stall (large enough to fit a wheelchair), and started to dance like a MOFO, lipping the words, “GIVE IT TO ME ROOOB BASE!!!”  An hour later, I walked out of the stall drenched in sweat, with bright red cheeks, feeling elated about doing my moves.

Today, I go to parties and weddings and dance like my life depends on it.  In photos of these events, I’m grimacing, dripping sweat (my dress even looks wet most of the time), and my arms are flailing.  Now I know that nobody at the dance would have given a rat’s ass about how good or bad I was on the floor.  And I would’ve had so much more fun dancing far away from the toilet (more space for the running man).  We all have things we love to do, or really want to do, but fear keeps us from putting the pedal to the metal, grabbing our cojones and doing them.

Next time fear stops you from doing something you’ve been daydreaming about, think of “Joy & Pain” and ask yourself how much of each this something would bring you if you flipped your fear off (yes, I’m talking The Middle Finger) and just went for it.

Being the oldest child of an incredibly strict mother when you’re in Jr. High results in a few not-so-cool things:

1.)  Always having to be Dudley Do-Right at home and at school (“Or your ASS IS MINE!”)
2.)  Not being able to go “cruise” the mall when your friends do (“My kids have a home, they don’t need to spend all day hanging out where there are creeps lurking!”)
3.)  Not partaking in slumber parties  (“I trust you…I just don’t trust other people…”)
4.)  Zero boyfriend action (“Boys only want ONE THING…”)
5.)  General exclusion from all things thrilling, exciting, “bad”, to be kept secret, etc. (“You better not EVER lie to me and you better tell me EVERYTHING…’Cause if I find out some other way, YOUR ASS IS MINE!”)

Since the outside world was off limits to the ‘tween me, I had to find creative ways to spend my time (note: my homework was always done ahead of schedule–see point # 1…)  Thank God for the telephone.

It was the early 90s, before normal people had caller ID, and when every time the phone rang, the identity of the person on the other end was a mystery until you picked up.  It was beautiful and perfect for prank calling.  In case you’re not aware of this, prank calling is truly an art, which made me a young and blossoming artist.  My pranks weren’t of the “Is your fridge running?  Then go catch it!” variety.  They were thought-out, involved and often epic works of adolescent art.

At first, I would find random numbers in the phone book, and my sister and I would pretend to be one of many characters like Otis, the uncle of whomever answered, who had just undergone a tracheotomy (you can imagine the voice…)  Then I started getting numbers from my friends, calling and pretending I had met the victim at some dance or birthday party at Roller City.  They always believed me and would stay on the line to have conversations.  Eventually, I got so gutsy that I started calling kids I knew from school or around the neighborhood, and even some adults, disguising my voice to remain unrecognized.  This is where the calls got interesting.  I started to realize that people (no matter their age) want to talk, share, spill their guts, tell their secrets without being judged, feel understood, complain, let their imagination go bananas, etc.

So, at the tender age of 12, I had managed to become the confidante of quite a collection of telephone friends and even boyfriends (a few boys from my school, some even “popular” (GASP!)) who I had on regular rotation.  We had amazing conversations, and I really got to know them and helped them through problems they were having at school, home, with self-esteem, etc.  I had even become telephonically close to a man in his 30s who was struggling with his addiction to alcohol–he, of course, thought I was a 20-something he had met at a party and forgotten due to said addiction.  Wow.

Now, it is evident that as Natasha, Mischa, Svetlana (I had a thing for Eastern European names) I was life coaching without knowing it.  Even way back then, during the Hammer Time times, it was my passion, and I was pretty effing good at it.