Bloggers "Firsts" - "Is that Beyonce?"

I have my fellow American expat here,

except she chose eastern europe

instead of the UK..

but i guess considering she teaches english..

and English is the first language in the UK (so they say...)

she isn't really needed here..

unless her teaching involved just entertaining me..

then she is needed here in the UK..

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My first live performance

First of all, after having looked at the above photo, let me just say -- I know what you're thinking.  'Is that Beyonce?'  'Her skin looks lighter....' 'Why is she dancing in a bathroom?' 'Was this, like, backstage before a show or something?'  

That's me in the photo, but...  I'm not Beyonce.  It's true!  I can't sing.  I'm not married to Jay-Z.  I'm not pregnant.  The last time I checked, I wasn't bootylicious.  Kanye doesn't think I have one of the best videos of all time.  Oh, and I'm Caucasian (like that really matters).  My name is actually Jenni Austria Germany.  But you're not the first to mistake me for Beyonce.  And I'm sure you won't be the last.

See, I try to be Beyonce all the time.  For example, if I know I'm about to cross paths with an ex-boyfriend and need a little confidence booster, I'll listen to 'Get Me Bodied' a few times while getting ready.  If I'm in line at the airport and need to channel my inner Sasha Fierce (because you need all kinds of fierceness to get through the airport these days), I'll give 'Diva' a listen on my iPod.  And instead of exercising, I've been known to pop in one of Beyonce's concert DVDs (yes, I do own every one of them, thank you very much) and practice the choreography.  FYI:  This work-out is far more enjoyable than your average Jillian Michaels routine and it burns just as many calories.  Trust me.  Anyway, one of those DVDs just so happens to play a big role in the story I'm sharing with you today...

It was the summer of 2010.  I was living in Vienna, Austria.  During this particular week, I was house-sitting for a friend.  It was a Monday evening and I had to be at work early the next morning so I didn't feel like going out or meeting up with friends.  Instead, I put on my favorite black leotard, found the black heels to match and headed upstairs to the TV room (totally normal, right?).  I put my favorite Beyonce DVD in the player and cued up Single Ladies.  Not only do I know this entire routine forwards and backwards, but it's my favorite one to dance to.  It had been over a year since I'd first learned the moves but I still knew each and every step by heart (because, as my friend and fellow-Beyonce lover, Sally, says, "Some things in life are just too important to forget").  

After a couple of run-throughs, my heart was pumping and my forehead was sweating.  I decided to move a fan into the room (Beyonce always performs with fans on stage, why shouldn't I do the same?).  I also decided to open a window.  And I turned up the volume, too, just for good measure.  I did the dance again and again and again...and then again for a grand finale.  After I felt sufficiently worked-out (not to mention pretty pleased with myself for nailing that routine time and time again), I decided to shut the window and go back downstairs.  And that's when I saw them.  The neighbors.  

That's right, the Austrian family who lived next door had gathered in the bedroom adjacent to my 'concert room' and they were staring at me, mouths agape.  At that moment, every ounce of Sasha Fierceness escaped me.  I hit the floor and crawled away.  I actually crawled all the way out of the room and almost crawled down the stairs, too, until I realized I had long since escaped their line of vision.  I didn't return to the TV room to shut the window.  I don't think I even turned off the TV.  And the next morning, when it was time to go to work, you better believe I sprinted (not walked, not ran -- sprinted) past the neighbor's house.  

That was my first live performance.  A couple weeks later, my second live performance (of the same dance, coincidentally) took place in a totally different location.  But I'll save that story for the next time Megan's away.