There is a term in dance, which is to dance “full-out.” In rehearsal, it means that you do the movements as you would perform them, rather than “marking” out your spacing and counts to preserve your energy. A less poetic explanation of dancing full-out might be “not half-assing it.”
It’s part of the dance lexicon, but I find that the term is widely adaptable. It can mean prying yourself off the wall at a party to mingle, taking a risk at work or just elevating your effort level from shuffle to hustle.
Doing something “full-out” means really committing to experiencing something instead of just surviving it.
It was never more poignant than when I was living in New Orleans and found myself in a twerking workshop for my Bounce Fitness class. (If you’re unfamiliar with Bounce, it’s a New Orleans-bred genre of rap, the history and complexity of which is expertly unpacked in this NYT profile of one of its best-known artists).
I have felt uncomfortable and out-of-place a great many times in my 28 years, but never so much as I did in plank position, ass up in a hip-hop class, being commanded to gyrate my hips at truly alarming speeds without any care to jiggle, wiggle or what my parents might think.
The instinct is, of course, to twerk elegantly. To try to contain your movements so as not to send flesh swinging into the personal space of anyone around you. To avoid going airborne, and, above all, to avoid embarrassment.
This compulsion to avoid embarrassment is one of those perfectly natural human impulses that should also be suppressed, like self-service and public farts. It’s an impediment to progress and to growth, and it’s a good way to miss out on something fun.
In the spirit of living more deliberately, I’m going to more fully embrace doing things full-out, starting with my old hobby. Next up: tap. Crap.
