Muscle memory is strong. Classical Gas plays, and I stand taller. I'm onstage at the Sacramento regional I Love Dance competition circa 1995. My eyelids are heavy with false eyelashes. My body is squeezed into a long-sleeve purple suit of itchy, thin lycra. My hair is slicked into a tight bun. I breathe in before the long stretch.
My jazz hands flex. We grab palms, developpe side, then back into a horseshoe bend; we slide--still linked--into the splits, fold into double attitudes, get up, chug, chug, leap. The trumpets come in. We streak across the stage in blurs of teal and purple. We're young, and thin. We make circles, lines, pairs of two. We don't complain about the silver headbands stretched across our foreheads. We focus our young energy on isolation of muscle. We control of our lines. We don't want to fall or let anyone down. The world is bright as the stage lights on our faces.
Mason Williams' Classical Gas is everywhere. It's playing behind someone running in a movie. It's playing in grocery stores and elevators. It's playing while I drive south on I-5, playing iPod roulette.
It makes me feel hopeful. Inexperienced. And jazzy.
For the next few weeks I'm writing in response to prompts from The Scintilla Project. Check it out.
Today's prompt: Talk about a memory triggered by a particular song.