Shake it, Baby

I used to moonlight as a professional bellydancer. Such a wickedly expensive habit: The money I made didn't even begin to cover the cost of my costumes! I had twelve of them, each more expensive and elaborate than the one before. My favorite costumes were from Istanbul.

I was a dance fiend, an addict: I couldn't get enough. Sometimes I'd work weeknights and weekends in addition to my 9-to-5 job. If I couldn't find a sitter for my daughter, I'd bring her with me. Sometimes she'd run into the restaurant area yelling "Mommy!" and getting tangled in my veil. I'd be embarrassed, but the audience thought it was adorable.

I did it all: Stage work in Atlantic City and New York, nightclub work in the Poconos, restaurant gigs in Pennsylvania and New Jersey, television appearances, weddings. I was "halftime entertainment" for famous Egyptian and Lebanese singers. I danced with a troupe. I went to dance conventions and would spend whole weeks in intensives at the Middle Eastern Dance Academy.

In short, I was a nut.

This phase lasted for 6 years or so, but one day I just burned out. My hobby had served its purpose: It kept me focused and feeling alive while I went through a very sad divorce. Eventually I grew tired of performing. One night during a restaurant gig as I was changing my costume for the fifth time, I thought, "Oh my god I hate this. This was supposed to be a hobby, but I'm not having fun anymore. What am I doing?"

So, after one last big gig with Morocco and Tarik, at a nightclub opener in upstate New York, I hung up my finger cymbals for good. Or so I thought. Last year the dance bug bit me again and I started taking lessons, even spending a week in NYC at the Academy. "Just for fun," I thought. "I don't need to perform."

Famous last words . . . that's what I said the last time.