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LIFE IS A BALL, MIGHT AS
WELL DANCE
© Anita Ryan 2002
It was about my third twirl on the
pulsating dance floor that I tripped over my stiletto and landed, laughing, at
the feet of hundreds of party animals. Alright, I’m exaggerating, there were
only ten people on the dance floor, and I wasn’t laughing as much as saying
“weeeeeeeee!” on the way down – everything seems so much funnier when you
add “weeeeeeee”. But seeing as we were at a masquerade ball at an elite
Margaret River winery, there should have been hundreds of bodies shaking
their booty on the dance floor. Where were they? Are there no life affirmers
living in the country?
If I could have arranged a divine
voice to whisper into the ears of all the non-dancers that they had only
twenty-four hours left to live, would that have inspired them onto the dance
floor? And if so, why do they need the threat of death to get them on there?
It’s not like we’re living in the days of the Mashed Potato and Moonwalk,
although the Chicken Dance and Nut Bush are still proving to be remarkably
resilient.
I make it my goal to live every
single minute of every single day with intention. That way, if I don’t
get the courtesy forewarning that time is running out, then I can have my last
few moments cherishing the fun I had, not crying over the regrets of what I did not
do.
Waking up every morning with the
thought that there must be a better way to start each day than waking up, I
banish negative thoughts by planning ways to add sparkle to the lives of people
I encounter.
For example, I might squirt a
spray of my favourite perfume (ahem, now stored on a separate shelf to the
toilet deodoriser to avoid confusion). Or I might put a rosebud from my
neighbour’s garden in my hair, (liberated under the cover of darkness to
escape my neighbour’s wrath). Or, sometimes I write a brief note to my son’s
teacher brown-nosing on his behalf until he learns to write blatant flattery
himself, (note to self: don’t sign the letters “From my son” – it’s a
dead giveaway).
Lately I’ve taken to dressing in
a stylish fashion, with an iron-crease down the front of my jeans. Not so that I
can look like an aspirational accountant, but so that I can present the image
that I care. Matching my razor-sharp jeans with my “good” jacket puts me in
the frame of mind that I am prosperous and $25 will seem like a bargain for the
selection of cheeses I purchase at the market. Putting cushions on my outdoor
furniture is extravagant but it’s a pleasure to invite to friends over to
salute the setting sun with a glass of Chardonnay in one hand and (thanks to
Bunbury’s volatile weather patterns), an umbrella in the other. I use my best
china, and serve the best wine I can afford. I chew my food and take care of how
my words will affect those around me. I listen to open fires. I taste the
stories that travel across the Indian Ocean on the sea breezes. I see and read
what people are really trying to say through body language. Anything to turn
life into a pattern of experiences to be savoured rather than endured.
It’s amazing the number of
people I meet who act as though life is nothing but a sexually transmitted
terminal disease. They are always planning for the days when they’ll be old
and running over people’s toes with their rocking chairs, instead of standing
still occasionally and smelling whatever roses might be left in my neighbours’
gardens. I was the same until I stopped wearing a watch – now when people ask
me for the time I can say “The time is Now.” Sometimes it means I’m a
little late for meetings, but I figure that being first to a meeting is a waste
of time anyway – no-one is there to appreciate my punctuality.
Silver screen icon and fearless
female Ingrid Bergman, described happiness as having good health and a bad
memory. But I would much rather remember regrets for what I did do, rather than
for what I didn’t. So if falling over on that dance floor is my punishment for
taking a bite out of life, well, that’s the price I’m prepared to pay. And
hey, life may not be the party you hoped for, but while you’re here, you may
as well dance.
Anita Ryan Author: www.goddess.com.au,
"Just-a-Minute Goddess"
Anita Ryan is a young-thirties (excluding GST) self-confessed eligible
bachelor and freelance writer. She enjoys writing things that raise
eyebrows, tickle the funny bone and knock socks off. In her spare time
(only joking, there is no spare time!) she is writing her unauthorised
autobiography and reading rejection letters from Mills and Boon. Get
your copy of Just-a-Minute Goddess at www.goddess.com.au/writer
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