Uncomfortable February Highlights: Week 3
This month, I’m doing a daily challenge to get out of my comfort zone. Here are a few highlights from the third week.
Hand out at least one dozen compliments (take two)
After not getting very far with this challenge last week, I decided to try it again. The only rule: the compliments had to be authentic.
I started out strong, first, letting an old friend I caught up with on the phone know how wonderful she is. Then, without trying too hard, I complimented several colleagues: I showed appreciation for working with one person, commented on another co-workers’ office chairs, and another person’s sweater.
As the day progressed I realized I probably would not hit a dozen. That was okay. It was the intent that mattered.
That evening I went to a yoga class with a live vocalist. She sang from the back of the studio, a mix of pop culture songs and free-style melodies. Her voice was captivating. She sang with her whole body and heart. I noticed this would be a perfect opportunity to hand out a compliment. But after the class ended, she continued to sing. And I had a warm shower and bed to get to.
So I wished her well in my head as I left the class.
I only made it to nine compliments.
The next morning, a colleague gave a brief presentation that I noticed did everything right in my book: her slides were clean and easy to read, helping to tell a story. Later that morning I called her to tell her how great I thought she did. She seemed to appreciate the gesture.
Normally, I probably wouldn’t have gone out of my way to do that. Maybe if I had run into her in the elevator. My brain was primed from the challenge the day before.
Ultimately, giving authentic compliments not only makes the receiver feel good, it makes the giver feel good, too.
Wear a women’s wig in public
My friend Sam offered to complete this challenge with me. It somehow evolved from walking around Hollywood to going on a hike at Griffith Park.
I bought cheap wigs on Amazon for both of us. Sam chose blue. I decided to go green. To be honest, I was expecting to go a more “natural” color but Amazon is the land of unlimited choices. If pink or blue are options, why settle on brunette?
We met at the Griffith Observatory parking lot at 7am. I was feeling self-conscious about the act of putting on the wig in public. Would people wonder what we were up to? I asked Sam what he thought of my concerns and he said, nonchalantly, it was as if this was a typical Tuesday morning, “let’s just put them on.” We did. And no one noticed.
We came up with a story: if anyone asked us what we were up to, we’d tell them it was our “day-after-President’s Day tradition.”
We headed to the north end of the parking lot and started the hike.
I laughed for the first few minutes, giggling like a child. I couldn’t hold a conversation with Sam. The absurdity of the situation was hitting me: two guys going on a hike in brightly colored wigs simply to subject themselves to the feeling of being uncomfortable. So far we were doing great.
The first few people we passed looked at us for a few seconds longer than would normally be considered polite. Some smirked, like they knew what we were up to. A park ranger drove by in a truck slowly, taking his eyes off the path for longer than I would have liked as he passed us and stared us down.
Oh, this is good. I thought. People are so confused. The feeling of being uncomfortable was still present, but mixed with a sense of joy and mischievousness.
I deviated from our conversation on careers and made an observation: “You know, we’re making people’s day. We’re either giving them a laugh, or providing them a story they will tell their their friends later.”
We passed a large family walking towards us. Every single person looked at us, the adults smirking, the children smiling or looking confused. One of them said good morning to us. After they were behind us, we heard the kids start to chuckle. I would like to think that we in fact did make their day.
Ultimately, I became used to the circumstances. By the time we hit the top of the hike, we were just two guys going on a hike, enjoying good conversation — who happened to be wearing wigs. The laughs, smiles and stares from others became normal.
The wind did add a layer of complexity: we did not come prepared with hair ties. I tasted a lot of synthetic fiber on the hike. It was at this point that I realized that the wig smelled like a faintly dirty bathroom. Oh well. Couldn’t expect much for $10.99.
I was particularly nervous going into this challenge — the absurdity of it all weighing on me. The possibility of subjecting myself to public humiliation. In the end, it was silly and fun. We made people laugh. It helped to have a friend there, too.
Attend Dance Tribe in Santa Monica
Dance Tribe in an ecstatic dance event that takes place twice a week in Santa Monica. An out-of-town friend recommended it, having recently attended the last time she was in Los Angeles.
The Dance Tribe website and accompanying video give a fairly descriptive idea of what to expect:
Dance Tribe is a most delicious combination of sacred space and playful, fierce, poignant self-expression in community.
One of the rules listed is to avoid talking. Fantastic. Dancing is enough — no need to add social anxiety on top of it,
As I approached the church entrance I wondered if it was happening on this night. It was quiet and the street was abandoned (I’m also skeptical of events that happen “every Thursday!” with no calendar or regular updates). I noticed a sign on the door that read “DANCE TRIBE. TONIGHT! 7:30–9:30PM. $15.”
Great. Here we go.
I walked up a flight of stairs and through a pair of double doors. Inside, it was dimly lit, with slow, melodic music filling the room. By the door was a small table with a bowl in the center, a few fives and twenties inside. Next to the table was a small, frizzy-haired blonde girl. I gestured towards the bowl with my cash in hand. “$15?” she asked, quietly. I fanned out my three five dollar bills and placed them in the bowl.
I removed my shoes, placing them neatly near a pile of others, and walked onto the dance floor.
It had the energy of a low-budget hippie-fest.
Moving lights cast a ripple of yellow onto the back wall. The sconces lining the sides of the room had been covered with cloth, casting a translucent glow. A tube of string lights lined the circumference of the space. Next to the DJ in front was an altar, illuminated with red light. The altar consisted of five pieces: a military jacket hung on a 2x4, a manikin head placed atop another 2x4, surrounded by white string lights, a slab of wood with two chalices and a small, framed photograph of what looked like a flower, a hand-painted stop sign on a post, and a small, metal statue of an owl.
What. The. Fuck, I thought. I’m sure it all had some significance. Or maybe not.
There were about ten people in the room. I had intentionally waited until about 7:50 to enter, not wanting to be the first person there. I walked into a corner (a place I tend to gravitate towards when I’m feeling anxious), and did some stretching.
Some people were moving in place slowly to the beat of the music. Others were doing yoga on the floor. One was meditating.
“Use this time to come home to your body,” said the DJ. I almost threw up in my mouth. Despite believing in mindfulness and understanding the importance of being in the body, in that moment, his words felt trite given the circumstances.
Around 8 o'clock the DJ encouraged everyone to move around the space, “noticing the other beings in the room… feel into their energy!” Everyone obliged. I moved into the far corner of the room. It was slowly filling up; at least 20 people at this point. The music began to pick up.
Then, like a bullet, a woman in her 70s dressed entirely in eccentric, yellow garb, shot into the room. She moved about the space with an impressive vigor, moving, bopping, looking oh-so-happy as she danced. For my remaining time at Dance Tribe, I don’t think she stopped moving once.
I was easily one of the youngest people in the room. Most were over 50. It must be nice to be that age, having experienced so much of life. Not caring at all what people think of you.
Slowly I became more comfortable, dancing, moving, doing whatever my body felt like doing. The music picked up even more. The DJ put on a creepy cat-like mask on that illuminated to the beat of the music. He played bongos. I tried not to judge.
It became clear to me at this point that there were many regulars at Dance Tribe. People were either hugging each other as they entered, or dancing with each other with an intimacy that people who just met don’t generally have. One couple danced with their backs pressed against each other, arms awkwardly entwined. It was weird.
I never was able to let go and get entirely into the experience. Comparison is an unhealthy habit of the mind. Yet, there I was, looking at people enjoying themselves, being free, wondering if I could get to that place. The girl working the front door joined the room. She was clearly a trained dancer, moving in ways most-cannot, jumping around, throwing her hands and legs in every direction. She was smooth and flawless. I tried to copy one of her moves and almost pulled a groin-muscle.
It was when two, then three people began rolling around on the floor on top of each other that I knew it was time to go.
