The Underwear Dance →[More:]One awakens to the sight of a blue cloth string, made by being pulled off the worn end of an old tee shirt, ending in the mouth of cat, who's unblinkingly knows the time.
It is time for The Underwear Dance.

The Underwear Dance is most preferably performed in one's least attractive underwear, but the choice of underwear is not the point. The point is to rise with seeming spontaneity and dramatic flair that chooses who leads in part one: tug of war.

This string is the leash, and as it goes, one must follow, but wait! The creature balks! She is pulling against the leash? Yes, i am! The leash leader feigns surprise. Oh, and the dance begins, like many a relationship, with the pull and push to pull of the tenuous bond between us.
It is the length of a supermodel and a hair's breadth away, a country dividing us, a communique uniting us, until yes--
Yes!
The string is mine! It has slipped your twisted grasp and it is free and floating!

Part two: much tippy toes and falling over.
Here comes the florid dramatics with much arm waving and running into other rooms and around sharp corners, with great possibility of falling over and skidding into things. Here come hindlegged pirouettes and muscle wrenching accidental asanas in the parry and thrust of it. Here be jazz hands and furious high kicks, back flips and pouncing leaps, and she does some pretty weird stuff, too, as the dance moves room to room, as we are caught in a vicious tide that throws us back and forth with whimsy. There is flailing and falling, flexing and flipping, no bonk or bump can stop the dance, no missing the beat in this chaotic rhythm. The string is the melody and we are just trying to keep it alive as it writhes from legato to pizzicato to Pizzicato Five, arabesques and Arabesque Pop, until it cannot be denied-- oh, no, part three: