I've never taken a real dance class. I don't know the first thing about sashays, pirouettes, or split leaps. My best friend, while growing up, was a dancer, a really good dancer, and I've envied her talent for years. I've decided that the only way I can obliterate my gnawing envy is to live through my daughter. It's a sick confession, I know. What I lack, she'll make up, twentyfold.
She actually loves to dance. I tell mi Amor that we need dance, she and I.
"Dance makes our lives better," I tell him.
"Do you love dance or does she?" He asks.
"We both crave it," I tell him.
He rolls his eyes knowing that I'm really just a sick-in-the-head Stage Mom.
Last night my homgurl danced her recital brains out. I was so proud of her that my eyes went misty. After the show, her dance teacher approached me, extending to her an invitation to tryout for their Company team. "Yes, yes, I'll do it...I mean, she'll do it," I said, while clapping my hands and running in place. Her barely adult-aged dance teacher then gave me a much needed dose of mental telepathy: We don't have room for near forty-year-old women on our team. Start living your own dreams. I got her message loud and clear.