So you know how I was being all self-congratulatory and shit in my last post about finally being up on stage with my teacher's tribal (my brain insists on typing that as tribble, btw) troupe?
Well, this weekend, the Tribble Dictator wants us to repeat this piece. With zills.
Yeah. About that.
I have chronic RSI in both wrists, a sense of rhythm comparable to that of an epileptic one-legged wombat, and a lack of coordination that makes said wombat look like a prima ballerina. This is not going to go well.
Of course, I could always say no, but where would be the fun in that? Besides, this performance is by way of being a spot of one-upmanship, as another local tribal group (with whom I used to study) recently performed with zills but didn't actually play them. If I don't join in and pull it off, we don't get the sense of smug holier than thou-ness which is an integral part of the sisterhood of dance :)
So this last week I have been drilling the ever-loving shit out of my zills, at home with mufflers on, on the wasteland outside the office without mufflers (and scaring every pigeon in South Birmingham) and driving my husband mad in bed (not in a good way) by singing baladi rhythm whilst mentally rehearsing the piece.