Fuck Comfort Zones

Music, films, computer games, football to an extent, politics to an extent, friends, relationships, coffee, tea, food and television are my comfort zones and it’s very rare that I ever go out of them. In fact, I probably am too comfortable, just simply sitting back, kicking my feet up and endlessly trawling the internet for opinions on music and new bands and discussions about said bands. It’s probably quite bad of me how close I am to everything that I enjoy.

It’s very rare that I exert myself into places and arenas that could be defined as out of my comfort zone, and as such I feel safer for it. surely it must be better to feel relaxed in your own skin in a place that you feel happy with? Surely!

No. Fuck comfort zones. I went salsa dancing on Friday and it couldn’t have been more out of my sphere of comfort if I had turned up naked. I don’t dance salsa, apart from rudimentary understanding of how to stay in time, and to be honest amongst any type of dancing I feel like everyone is looking and pointing and laugh at how badly coordinated my feet are. It’s bad news all round.

But then I start to think, via the help of Mr Tennants, that maybe I could dance. I mean, everyone else there was varied experience, and everyone has to start somewhere. And it’s not as if I don’t have rhythm, I play the drums and can dance a mean ceilidh, so surely it would be fine? I need to learn the basics first, gain confidence (or drink more) and then try some more interesting things.

So to say the elast, it won’t be the last time I go. In fact, it might be classed, in time, as the first time I went. I want to learn how to dance properly, and well... as not only did it look really good fun, relaxing, quick, healthy and socialable, it means I get to dance with pretty girls, rather than just stare at them.

So I say, fuck comfort zones. Fuck them in front of everyone, on top of a bunch of spikes – comfort is over rated.