Category Archives: history

A Thing I’m Slowly Figuring Out

I tend to try maintain an aura of ebullient optimism.

I’m aware that I lead a relatively charmed life, in which I’m permitted by circumstance to pursue a fairly impractical set of goals, and to mention that I still struggle seems a bit like spitting right into the face of good fortune.

But I do still struggle, and I’m beginning to understand something, which is this: living a life in which I’m not forced to do work that grinds my soul to powder, in which the work I do is work that I enjoy, doesn’t alter the fact that my mental health is a little fragile and that history and genetics have conspired to place me on a narrow bridge that spans a yawning chasm.

Rather, the life I’m living acts as a kind of safety harness, so that when–not if–I go plummeting off my bridge, I can eventually climb back up, or at any rate be hauled back up by people who love me.

I am capable of periods of immense creative productivity, but they’re interspersed with periods in which merely surviving is still all I can do. Those periods of mere survival are made easier to bear by the knowledge that I won’t have to return, as soon as I’m barely able, to work that will inevitably accelerate the arrival of the next plunge off the bridge.

Because D carries the vast majority of the weight of the financial responsibility of keeping us afloat, I’m able to get up and walk along my bridge for long periods, when in the past I rarely made it beyond the clinging-and-crawling-along-the-edges phase before I slipped again.

I don’t make much money doing what I do, but I usually have enough energy left over to keep our house comfortable to live in and to cook good food.

~

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Tapeless Boys Live!

Sadly, I failed to realize the potential hilarity in recording a video of A-ha’s classic, “Take On Me,” with a small change in the lyrics (read: “Taaaaaaaaaape onnnnnnn meeeeeee [Tape … on me!]” etc) until this morning, after I’d peeled myself free of The Tape.

I suppose I’m overestimating my overall level of organization in assuming I could complete any such project, though.

Anyway, I know, I know: I said I was going to let it come off on its own.

D had his concerns, though, about leaving it on too long, and also once the little end bits started peeling themselves off I got antsy about it. They weren’t making me itch except when they were—always when it was least convenient to be furiously scratching an armpit. I trimmed them, and then I trimmed them a little more, and finally this morning I said, “Ah, feck the lot of yous,” to the remaining bits and peeled them right the heck off.

Anyway, things are looking good under the tape. The incision lines have remained very narrow; in many spots, I suspect that they’ll disappear completely over time.

I’ve known for a long time that I generally heal very well, for the most part, and my surgical incisions appear to be no exception to that rule. This, by the way, is a really strong argument of remaining as fit as you can if you have even the mildest form of Ehlers-Danlos: the better your blood supply and oxygenation, the better it’s going to be for your healing process no matter what, but that’s extra important when you have a disorder that affects collagen formation.

I chose a surgeon who has a ton of experience doing surgeries like mine–one who specializes in them, in fact–and who is known for his fastidious approach to suturing at all the necessary layers. Given that “hypermobility-type” EDS is less rare than the other types, and that he has literally done thousands of these surgeries, it’s a safe bet that he’s worked on someone with the same condition before.

He said to expect things to look a little ripply and wrinkly at first, but there are very few ripply spots.

Overall, I continue to be surprised by how good everything looks.

Anyway, here are a couple of shots from this morning:

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The left side is particularly clean, even though the incision is a good 2 cm longer. I suspect that the portion towards my arm will be invisible within a few months. It’s actually less visible IRL; for whatever reason, cameras tend to enhance the redness of these things. Also, I have no idea why I’m making my “What did you say to me?!” face here. In other news, this is what my pecs look like when I’m not flexing like an overwrought high school kid.

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My chest looks better than my eyes, which are hella puffy this morning because allergies. In this shot, you can see the only ripply spot (right at the inner end of the right-hand incision), and you can also tell that the spot right under my arm is a little puffy, which is pretty typical when you’ve had drains in and will persist for a bit.

You can see a couple of pale hypotrophic scars in the second picture (if you look closely, you can just pick barely out the related ones in the first shot)—those are really old, leftover from Things That Happened 😦 I have some elsewhere, too. They’re not the result of neat surgical wounds, but of untreated cuts (not self-inflicted)[1].

  1. I’m not sure how much of this I’m ever going to discuss here. Honestly, this blog isn’t about that, and I don’t want it to become one long Content Warning.

Anyway, one of the things I hadn’t anticipated as a result of this surgery was that a bunch of those scars would be gone, since they were in areas that wound up in the Extra Skin Department. They were from before the m00bs, so I suppose it never occurred to me to think about it?[2]

    1. The funny thing is that I was well aware that I would finally be rid of at least some of the stretch marks that resulted from the rapid development and equally-rapid diminution of the Moobs[3]. I worried that the remaining ones would wind up looking weird and truncated, but actually there are barely any and they’re effectively unnoticeable.
    2. …Aaaand, now that phrase is racketing around in my head as a parody of Poe’s “The Bells,” because it scans: “The tintinnabulation of the bells, bells, bells…” all too easily becomes “the rapid diminution of the moobs, moobs, moobs…” Feh. Apologies if that’s as terrible an earworm for you as it is for me.

Interestingly, this is the one place where my feelings about all this get a little complicated (or, as they say in The Book of Mormon (the musical): “Now’s the part of our story … that gets a little bit sa-a-aad…”).

It doesn’t in any way diminish my delight at the outcome of my procedure—not the least fraction of an iota, in fact. If I could go back and do it again, I would in a heartbeat.

What is weird is that I’m not sure how I feel about those scars being gone.

I’ve evolved the philosophical position that scars, in a way, represent history written into our skin. For me, looking at my scars doesn’t trigger bad memories or make me feel victimized or whatever; it reminds me that I survived; that I came through and sort of fought my way back to, like, life. (I say “sort of” because I’m not 100% sure “fought” is the right word; it implies an angry struggle, and not one of endurance. There have been angry moments, sure, but mostly it’s been a question of determination.)

There’s also the fact that I associate my scars very positively with one of the very first people who responded to my history with kindness and understanding instead of shock and attempts to evade discomfort by minimizing the flat-out badness of the stuff that happened. The first time my first boyfriend saw me shirtless, he touched the scars really gently and said, “Oh my G-d … who did this to you?”

For me, that moment was incredibly important: it was the moment that I first realized, really, that dealing with what happened to me in any really helpful way was even possible. (For what it’s worth, though, the scars he touched, that time, were the ones on my belly, which are still there and, barring anything really weird, always will be.)

That said, losing my scars isn’t the same as losing my history … and our bodies change all the time. There were many more cuts that never scarred in the first place, for one thing. Only the deepest ones left any trace, and even those have faded tremendously.

Anyway, I suppose there are a lot of people who would expect me to feel, like, “Yay! Fewer scars, especially ones associated with horrible things!”

But, in fact, that’s not how I feel, and I’m okay with not feeling that way. I guess having Feels about it took me by surprise: it hadn’t occurred to me to think about it before. In fact, I didn’t even think about it until I took the tape off and noticed the remnants of those scars. Chalk that up to trying really hard to just not look at myself in the mirror ever since the beginning of the Great Risperal Caper.

For what it’s worth, I’m also the kind of person who wouldn’t go back and change what happened to me (probably, anyway: it’s easy to say that, isn’t it, when we don’t actually have time travel yet). I wouldn’t go in for therapy that would erase the memories, either. Yes, it was bad. Really fucking bad, to be entirely honest. I am still dealing with the fallout and will probably never be done dealing with it.

BUT. It also made me a more humane, more compassionate person. It might, in fact, be one of the major reasons that I am not a much worse human being than I am. And it taught me, over the course of many years, to tap into a profound and quiet strength that I think probably belongs to us all as humans; to endure, to survive, and finally to shake off my shackles and begin to thrive.

So that’s that.

At any rate, I’m rather glad I took the tape off, because it seems that the adhesive has irritated my skin in a few spots. So chalk one point up to D, who has been gently hinting that maybe I should go ahead and peeeeeeeeeel it off (“Like a lliiiiiight switch! There—it’s gone!” ACK SOMEBODY PLEASE STOP THE SHOWTUNES).

Invisible Things With Which I Still Wrestle

I was going to write a more positive kind of post. In fact, I couldn’t sleep last last night night to save my life, and wound up writing most of one. But, honestly, I’m not feeling it today. Instead, I’m wrestling with the little corner of my mind that refuses to stop having anorexia. So, erm. 

So, content warnings, I guess? Abuse, anorexia, attempted suicide, body shaming, rape. 


I did not grow up in a body-positive family.

Probably most of us didn’t. Mine was almost certainly no less body-positive than usual—but things were complicated. 

(More behind the cut. This one gets dark before it gets light again.)


My Mom is small and muscular—not Petite Lady muscular, but Closet Bodybuilder muscular; Female Superhero muscular (I honestly think this is kind of awesome, but I still feel weird saying it without asking her first if it’s okay). She also, like many human beings with insanely busy and stressful lives, tended to be a little on the fluffy side. 

As such, she was eternally on a diet. This was before white people learned about beautiful women in sizes greater than 6.

My sister had the face and coloring of Snow White—and a thyroid that basically did nothing from the time she entered grade school, and a legitimately fat-phobic pediatrician who refused to test her for hypothyroidism because he felt that it was “overdiagnosed.” 

Note that we’re talking about a disease that’s empirically measurable, here: a simple test would have revealed—and later did reveal—that my sister’s thyroid level was in the category of “What the actual feck.” But instead of doing his job, our first pediatrician essentially prescribed my sister essentially the same diet that I, years later, would impose upon myself: the one that left me weighing 85 pounds at 5’4″. 

On the other hand, my sis excelled in school, and I didn’t, and as such I felt like our parents (both avid readers and unabashed intellectuals) valued her more. 

I meanwhile, was everything my family didn’t know what to do with: smart, but bad at school; a natural athlete; gifted with a ridiculous set of eyelashes; and, above all, thin.

I seriously thought I was stupid for most of my childhood—but I was lean and strong and could trust my body to do what I asked it to do.

Unfortunately, the only one of these things that seemed to correspond to anything my family cared about was that I was lean. 

Somewhere in my Mom’s house there’s a picture of me at five or six, not in any way the pudgy little kid people expect at that age, but whip-slim and seriously defined. That was noticed, commented on, and reinforced.

It became part of how I defined myself. A big part. 

In fact, for a long time, it was the only way I knew how to succeed. 

~

Is important to note that, in the midst of all this, my family wasn’t cruel about body size—at least, not that I saw. Mom is a good feminist, and tried hard to walk the “you’re beautiful the way you are, but for your health you should lose weight” line for my sis. At the time, that was about as close to body positivity as one was likely to get.

The thing is, actions speak louder than words—and it was clear that the whole situation made Mom wildly uncomfortable, no matter how hard she tried to keep that under wraps. And, in the end, my sis heard more about her failure to shrink to an acceptable size than she did about her incisive mind, her facility with the written word, or her fabulous design sense. 

The same model applied to my failure to function at school: I heard constantly about how I could excel if I just tried harder. I knew that was incorrect, because I was trying so hard I wanted to explode. It didn’t seem to really matter that I was legitimately gifted in dance, music, and visual art—my family embraced the arts, but didn’t seem to regard them as viable career paths. It only seemed to matter that I was an unmitigated disaster in the academic sphere. 

Thus, unconsciously, I picked up on the fact that what I had to offer the world was a nice body and beautiful eyelashes. I was a gay boy who grew up in a house full of women. My role models were young ballet dancers. In my mind, a “nice body”  was thin.

I was thirteen when I spent a summer at a well-reputed gymnastics training program. Ironically, this would be the experience that ended my aspirations as a competitive gymnast: I was light and strong, but everyone else was hitting puberty and I was, essentially, still a kid. I was already taller than both my parents, but reedy in build. In terms of upper-body strength, I could no longer compete.

On the other hand, I returned home with the kind of lean, attenuated physique that one attains by five or six hours a day spent in hard physical training—and suddenly I was very attractive to a certain subset of the male population (read: the kind of assholes that find underdeveloped middle school kids attractive, ugh, but what the hell did I know? I literally didn’t know what what the word “rape” meant.). As a young, socially awkward, queer kid, the effect of this kind of attention was profound.

I fell into a flirtation with one such individual. I thought I could handle myself, until suddenly it was all too apparent that I couldn’t.

I’m not going to discuss the details. The end result was basically a year of hell, a solid case of Stockholm syndrome that would take years to undo, and a conviction that the only, only, only thing that made me worthwhile was my lean, bony, androgynous body. 

I think you can see where this is going. 

I don’t usually tell people this, but this is why I stopped dancing (and also the reason that, when I returned to dance in high school, it was through modern first, no matter how badly I will yearned for the order and beauty of ballet, literally because you can wear looser clothes). This was the reason that I didn’t apply, as a rising freshman, to the dance program at the arts magnet that would later very literally save my life. I no longer trusted my body—and at the same time, I felt it was the only thing of value I had to offer the world.

I believed I was stupid, but I also believed that I was desirable as long as I stayed thin. 

But being desirable also felt dangerous. My whole world was terrifyingly out of control, including the only thing I regarded as an asset. 

So I basically stopped eating. 

Remember the diet my sister’s pediatrician prescribed? It was 800 calories a day. At one point, that was my goal (it later dwindled to 600, which is still the number my brain settles on when things get bad). My sister was forced to count grapes. I counted them myself. 

For a year or more, I could wrap my own hands around my waist. I remained convinced that I was getting fatter. 

I find this almost inconceivable now: I mean, not the delusional sense that I was getting fatter, but the fact that I was that freaking thin.

~

From where I stand now, I can see that a lot of my anorexia was, predictably, about controlling the only thing I could control. I had discovered, terrifyingly, that I couldn’t even control what other people did my body, but I could control its size. I could remain lean and sleek and androgynous—though increasingly I must have just been bony, even cadaverous. 

I convinced myself that I was not, in fact, really anorexic because I thought it was fine if other people were big (in fact, big guys are still kind of at the top of my list, though it increasingly seems that I find the vast majority of adult humans attractive to varying degrees). Clearly, that meant that the problem wasn’t with my perceptions of body shape, but with my actual body. 

Awesome logic, there, amiright? 

In other ways, I retreated into a world of fantasy and delusion for a while. When you can’t talk about what’s happening to you, but you have to offer some account that explains why you aren’t doing your homework and why you never wear shorts or short sleeves, you quickly learn to lie, and to lie well. You learn that people don’t, on the balance, really want to know that things are, in fact, unspeakably bad.

You learn learn to control the two things you can still control: the story the world gets about you, and what you put in your mouth. 

~

I was fourteen when I used a broken pen—the clear, hard-plastic kind that you can literally use to shank a mofo—to drill a hole in my left arm. The intent was to cut a neat little hole into the large blood vessels in each wrist, one centimeter square. The ultimate goal was death.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. 

My Mom wasn’t home. My sister was living with our Dad. My grandmother, who was legitimately gifted with a kind of second sight I can’t explain away, happened to be staying with us (in retrospect, I assume this was because I was such a mess). 

She interrupted me before I could finish the job. We had never been allowed locks on our bedroom doors, and I wasn’t aware you could wedge a door shut with a chair. I had made an effort to jam my door with a heavy bookcase, but I don’t think anything would’ve stopped Gram. She was around eighty by then, but she she was a force of nature, and she loved my sister and me so much.

I told Gram I had cut myself by accident. She didn’t believe me, and I knew she didn’t believe me, but we pretended that she just really needed my company. I don’t remember what else I did that night, but obviously dying wasn’t involved. 

The next day I went to school. Predictably, my arm started bleeding during art class. I tried to hide it, but the girl who shared my table quietly called my teacher’s attention to the problem. 

I was hospitalized before dinner.

Even in the hospital I maintained that I couldn’t possibly have anorexia because the other anorexics thought fat people were disgusting. I liked fat people, so I couldn’t be like them. Again with the logic.

Ultimately, it wouldn’t so much be the actual treatment, but the side-effects of medication that broke the back of that first episode of severe dietary restriction. The medications I was given made me retain water and temporarily destroyed my metabolism. They also disrupted my balance and equilibrium. I had lost control even of my body, so there was little point in trying to control it. 

I’d like to say that cured me, but it didn’t. As soon as I could manage it, as soon as I moved out of my Mom’s house, I starved myself back down down to a BMI of 17.

Since then I’ve struggled intermittently with this thing. Ironically, ballet helps—first because you can’t actually starve yourself and expect to dance well for long; second because it has taught me to trust my body again and to appreciate it for something other than androgynous leanness.

At my “fighting weight,” I’m just a dancer, like other dancers: lean but strong, possessed of a kind of masculine grace I didn’t used to appreciate in myself.

Right now, though, I’m six pounds up, the world is on fire, and I’m struggling with this beast again. 

I recognize that a lot of of it is this: things feel insanely out of control.

My country seems to be steering full steam ahead for for the nearest dangerous rocky shoal. People I care about are standing on precarious slopes. Decisions being made by people in power threaten all kinds of civil liberties for all kinds of people. They also directly threaten D’s livelihood (he specializes in treating adults with developmental and intellectual disabilities, whose Healthcare is government-funded) and mine (I’m an artist; of you crash the economy, artists feel feel it fast). That’s part of it.

But, just as much, the life that I’ve carefully constructed like a divided dinner plate is losing its barriers. People I take class with are becoming friends. My facebook is connected to my Instagram, which isn’t connected to my blog, but since they share a title I’m terrified that my dance peeps are going to roll up in my blog and tell me I’m insane (and be really, really annoyed with me for writing about class).

That’s also part of it.

And this thing with being a performing artist is sort of weirdly taking off,  and that’s both thrilling and terrifying. It’s like stepping out onto a high wire, knowing there might be some asshole on Terra Firma with tin snips and a grudge.  Oh, and then there’s the housework. And the book-keeping. And the fact that I’m still in limbo about surgical correction for the whole Dances with Moobs problem. 

All of that feels pretty out of control.

Likewise, for me, the six pounds makes ballet technique harder: simply put, my thighs are already big enough that a little extra fluff can hose up my fifth. Sure, it’s still pretty good, but I was closing in on reliably perfect. 

And, ultimately, like so many people who  struggle with anorexia, I am by nature and by training a relentless perfectionist.

So that little gap in my fifth? 

It fecking well drives me mad. 

~

Experience has taught me that this, too, will pass. I know my body well enough to know that it’ll get back to its “fighting weight” soon enough.

Just, right now, I’m wrestling the furious frustration of not quite being able to put this anorexia thing to bed once and for all.

I’m not giving in to it. I’m still more or less driving the train. 

But the internal struggle is on; the one between the voice in my head that calmly informs me that if I don’t shed six pounds by Thursday, it’s because I’m weak, and the other, newer voice—a healthy, logical voice that reminds me, “You dance and train like twenty hours a week. Relax.”

For what it’s worth, this—for me—is still about me. Like I said: I like all kinds of bodies: all kinds except the one specific and unique kind that is this body; my body. On somebody else I’d look at it and go, “Hey, he’s cute.”

On myself, though? 

Check back with me in a couple of weeks, when things start to feel a little calmer (or don’t), when I’ve adjusted to the latest subspecies in my ever-evolving schedule.

Sometimes There Are No Words

I try not to lend aid to the cause of people who would use fear to control the rest of us, so I’m not going to comment on them. Not directly. Not here.

Nobody — asexual, bisexual, queer, straight, Atheist, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Wiccan, female, intersex, male, transgender, immigrant, native-born, Asian, Black, Latino, White, any race, any faith, any anything, whatever else people can be — should be targeted with violence.

And yet it happens every day.

We notice when it happens to a lot of people at once. We don’t always notice when it happens to one person at a time; not until it reaches a kind of critical mass.

I thought about this when I was in Cinci; when I saw the words WE CAN’T BREATHE stenciled on the same square of pavement every morning; every evening. I thought about it today, when people in Louisville came together to organize a vigil for people in Orlando who they never met.

Regardless, tragedy is tragedy. Human cruelty is human cruelty.

I don’t pretend to make sense of any of this. I don’t pretend to have intelligent things to say about it; I don’t.

Even if I did, maybe it’s too soon to make sense; to say intelligent things. I don’t know.

Grief is a mysterious thing, whether it’s the direct grief of an immediate personal loss or the indirect grief of living in a world where things happen like this.

So that’s what I’m saying, because I don’t have any other words; because for a long time I haven’t had any other words.

A Passing Thought

…But first, a quick update: I am definitely feeling yesterday’s aerials class (though not excessively) in the muscles that need work. Excellent.

Now, on to a reflective post I wrote last night:

~~~

My father died when I eighteen.

We’d had a rocky time for most of my life — Dad was a rocky man, like the shore is rocky off Acadia in Maine. Difficult, sometimes frightening, often magnificent. Those last two years of his life, though, we had a pretty great relationship — also rocky, in its own way, and full of secret tides and undercurrents, but also magnificent.

I didn’t know what Dad made of me then. It didn’t really occur to me to wonder. Dad didn’t raise us to care what he thought: he wanted us, instead, to be singularly, incontrovertibly ourselves — and he wanted us to prove it.

So it surprised me, tonight, as I lie here reading, to find myself wondering what Dad would make of me now; what he’d make of the sometimes-precarious route I’ve carved out trying to figure out how to be what I am.

The answer is still, “I don’t know.”

I kind of like to think he’d like where I’m going now — launching myself from the springboard of academia into a frankly-kind-of-weird career, learning circus arts, turning myself into a dancer, tilting at windmills.

I had the kind of Dad who would have been secretly happy to see his kids run off and join the circus, even though he’d have chewed us out first, probably to ferret out and destroy any trace of cowardice or cliché. He would want us to go knowing in our hearts that we are born to join the circus, not to go because it seemed less awful than some other thing.

I realize now that was part of his rockiness: our Dad had a poet’s intolerance for falsehoods. He tolerated them. no better in himself than in anyone else. He didn’t care what you did: he cared why. And it wasn’t an affectation — it was his nature, like it’s the nature of the Maine coast to be hard and high and beautiful.

I couldn’t see all this before. I guess that’s how it works, though: as a kid, you see your parents through a different lens than you do as an adult. As an adult, some things look different; some things don’t.

I have always said that my Dad married my Mom’s family, and now I think I understand what I mean. He saw in them a kind of abiding and unselfconscious fidelity to their own natures. They were all as different as days, but they — especially Grammy, Mom’s mother — were all unshakeably themselves. Dad loved and admired all of them, regardless of the divorce.

Even Mom, in her long, unhappy years of restraint, being a Serious Woman with a Serious Job, was never untrue to herself. The painful part, I guess, must have been how half of her had to lie more or less dormant in those days, bursting out here and there and slowly accumulating momentum and force and life in the form of the beautiful garden that slowly ate first the back yard, then the front, a literal inflorescence of the soul.

I don’t know what Dad thought of me, that last year of his life. I was still casting around, searching for an exoskeleton, an identity I could step into I guess so I wouldn’t have to do the hard and lonely work of being who I was. Having felt the cutting edge of loneliness too long, I wanted to be loved. I would have said I wanted to be loved for who I was, and would’ve believed it, but I was wrong. I was still a long, long way from there.

I won’t say that I never do that anymore: identity is a nebulous thing, and I still want to be loved — but I am loved, as well and unconditionally as I believe a human being can be loved.

It’s easier to be brave, because of that.

So I still don’t know exactly what my Dad would make of me, if he were here — but I have begun to think he’d like what I’ve become, although he might not say it.

Not that he would mean any harm; not that he wasn’t brave enough. But his heart and mind were always two steps down the road, preparing to head off half-truth and hypocrisy.

I think he’d grill me about every single one of my cherished suppositions.

And I hope, were he alive to rake those coals, that I would have the courage and good sense to meet him toe-to-toe and love him for it.

Danseur Ignoble: The Search (This. Is. Looooooooong.)

I noticed today that, for this week, the top search that led someone to my blog was “why should ballet dancers be an ectomorph?”

Grammatical awkwardness aside, I think that’s a good question, and one that I haven’t touched on in a while.

The short answer is:
“Because that’s the trend.”

My full answer to this question is really long, so here’s the TL;DR version up front:

They shouldn’t, necessarily — but because fashion and function influence each-other profoundly in the performing arts and especially in ballet, trends in the art form stemming from the mid-20th century have created a situation that makes it easier for ectomorphic dancers to succeed as professionals. Likewise, I would posit that choreography has evolved to best suit the ectomorphic bodies currently in vogue.

Since professional dancers broadly inform our cultural definition (“what a ballet dancer is“), we have come to think that ballet dancers should be ectomorphs — but really, there’s no overwhelming em>functional advantage.

Functionally speaking, some advantages exist — ectomorphs are usually light, and thus easier to lift when partnered — but disadvantages also exist — ectomorphs are more prone to osteoporosis; they’re less likely to be good at explosive movements like jumps. The mesomorphic and endomorphic body types also come with advantages and disadvantages in dance.

At the end of the day, it’s really a question of fashion.

…And now, on to the “Really Long, But Feel Free To Read It Anyway” version:

Read the rest of this entry

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