Bellydancing is a fact of my life. It is not a fad, not to be put aside like some of my other pursuits; beach glass mosaics, speed-walking or calligraphy. I can turn my head away for a little while, but somewhere a string of music or a rhythm always catches me. The dance troupe that I've ingratiated myself with is real. As much as I try to fade to the back of the room to observe the pretty young women with bendy bodies, I cannot ignore that I'm taking up space in this room. My body moves, not like a seventeen year old, but it moves. It wants to dance too, heavy and swollen, but with hips that remember. I can summon the zills heavy rhythms in silence. My hips pop, my arms swim, my chest drops. We rehearsed khaleegy yesterday, and I didn't even have to think about how I would drop to my knees. My brain didn't think creaky knees, it just went down. My hair swirled. I'm not here by mistake. Every flaw my body carries is part of my dancing. I am a dancer.