rants: rayne: saga: story: dance

Dancing in the rain. It's an ancient cliche often employed by those emo girls who are obsessed with changing their buddy icons ALL THE TIME and usually signifying a blooming romance (which is about to, in this case, go running back inside with smudged mascara and cry-but let us not be cynistereotypical, eh? Let's look on the bright side! SHINY WATER, falling from the sky!) which will, perhaps, later lead to another buddy icon entailing the inherent faults of men.
But I digress.
Dancing, as you may know, is something I love and was imprinted on my two-year-old mind, when I was a tiny toddler in a tutu and tap shoes. (It still astounds me when I find some of the costumes I wore in recitals. I mean, this is America. We already have typical kids dressing like underage prostitutes; so you put your kid, who's unavoidably under six, into something that makes pre-teens in the audience squeal. You paint this baby's face and have them prance across a stage in a very practiced, very uncoordinated, very adorable routine. And a subliminal message is sent out to corrupt the youth. Terrible stuff.) I danced ballet, tap, and later jazz for seven to eight years, from when I was two to just before I turned ten and started getting taller and chubbier than the petite, flute-boned little pests favored in our limited, childish dance world (they were usually the ones who quit at perhaps eleven, after beginning at six, and were usually seen in school on the fringe of the popular kids' table), and quit to join 4-H and work with cute, fluffy bunnies.
Now, I am looking to learn ballroom dancing and maybe hip-hop, because I realize that this will greatly and positively impact my theatrical/otherwise artistic career, but until such a time as I can find a class that doesn't conflict with my social status, classes, age, or lack of a dance partner/friend, seeing as all my friends live far away from good old Conformington, CT (© 2008 Rayne) and have schedules of their own, and thus cannot take a dance class with me, I am stranded and completely unable to dance.
Now, I'll be the first to get backup on 'essential' skills-my yoga instructor used to call me 'gummi legs' and swear I didn't have bones-like extreme flexibility/not feeling pain, and I do an awesome (and often, I've been told, very menacing) high kick, and grapevines and jazz squares are second nature to me now, but I'm obviously incredibly clumsy and too easily distracted by music, people, random happenings, and shiny and/or moving things, so I guess that's an issue.
But back to the rain.
Have you ever wondered why people call me that? I pilfered it from a vampire book I found one day and desperately wanted to read, but never found again (it's been ages, several years now, and I'm still searching for it), and a friend of mine decided it was fitting. I was going through a goth phase at the time, and the name just stuck when I became especially involved with theatre and started focusing on my writing.
Also, nobody can, upon first learning it, spell my real name correctly. And it is often mispronounced.
The rain is so much like me; it changes, it falls (a lot), it's constant and moody.
The perfect partner*; it's time to dance.