Dance Night

My little girls have been taking dance lessons for over a year now. I try not to let my own prejudices and insecurities influence my children—they have the right to make their own mistakes and learn their own lessons about the cruelties and joys of genetics, body type, and natural inclinations. I, too, had sparkly dreams of dance stardom in spite of the fact that I towered over every other child (girl and boy) in my age group more or less from birth. Ballerinas aren’t built like linebackers, but my parents never crushed my dreams and I won’t crush those of my girls. And, really, they are beautiful and perfect in their tiaras and fairy wings right now. I can deal with body glitter and eye makeup on my preschoolers if that makes them happy. It doesn’t mean it makes me happy. It has taken nearly 40 years for me to feel comfortable in my own skin. At almost 6 feet tall, I’ve always felt gangly and awkward and unfeminine. At the core of my most secret, girly heart, I admit a secret affinity for pink and sparkles and I never watch an episode of Dancing with the Stars without tiny bubbles of “what if”, and “maybe when’s” popping into my consciousness. But the reality is I found sports (or sports found me) at a young age, I lack courage when it comes to make up, I lack interest when it comes to hairstyling (ponytails drift in and out of style, but they will always be my go-to style of choice), and I really hate shopping. I’ll never be a true girly girl. So when I take my girls into dance and I encounter the perfect pedicures and dangly earrings and poufy hair dance mom crowd, I turn into my gangliest, most awkward tomboy self. It doesn’t help that my girls HATE having their hair combed, so more often than not they are uncombed, smudge faced (dance class is right after supper), and barefoot (they are SUPPOSED to come barefoot. Well, they are supposed to DANCE barefoot. I guess most of the girls actually wear shoes into the studio. As it has gotten colder, I've tried to be more diligent about making them where something on their feet into the studio. But it hasn't snowed yet, I'm so TIRED by the time dance class rolls around and, seriously, if they don't think their feet are cold, why should I worry about it?). We don’t fit in. I never blogged about the recital last year, though I could have filled a half dozen posts with my rants about how sort of obscene it felt to smear dark foundation make up on their perfect, glowy skin, and how uncomfortable I was applying my brightest red lipstick on their perfect pink lips. Or how when the instructions said “pigtails with a pouf” I completely missed that the “pouf” was meant for their bangs (“Mo-om—it doesn’t LOOK RIGHT!”) and not their tails. Whatever. By the time dance class (or any evening activity) rolls around, I’m tired. I do wear make up every day, but I certainly don’t reapply it (or have any knowledge of how to keep it from wearing off after a 10 hour day) just for activity drop offs. Last spring I was training for my half marathon, so often I would roll in in my sweaty running clothes, all of my remaining eye make up smeared on the sleeves and shoulders of the t-shirt I inevitably used as a sweat towel. Not to mention the fact that I didn’t smell all that great. Dance moms are just different. They are prettier and more put together. They are small and made up and fashionable. I don’t fit in. I’ve never fit in that crowd. Cut to one of their first lessons, earlier this fall. I was in my summer “uniform” (Eddie Bauer ribbed tank top, Old Navy shorts, flip flops) and we dashed in for the girls’ first lesson of the new school year. The dance moms (and some of the dads—most in their work clothes) were waiting outside, peeking in the little curtained window to the studio and making small talk. As I was walking in, I had noticed that my 2 year old was emanating “that” smell, so I vowed to stay away from the others just until the girls came out and I could dash out (making no eye contact, gaze fixed on my very ragged 4 week old toenail polish). But of course (of course) I ran into someone I knew—-a guy I work with. At that point, I remembered that my tank top became racy and revealing when I was lugging a giant, smelly two year old on my hip. I was wearing my pretty, lacy pink VS bra, but I had NO desire for anyone I worked with to catch a glimpse of it. As I was making small talk, and desperately trying to casually keep the weight of my son from completely pulling my shirt below my pretty bra, Clayton decided it would be a good time to show an interest in my breasts. This is the child who clamped his lips together and turned his head away shrieking during most of my attempts at breast feeding. And he decided RIGHT THEN to become fascinated by my completely dry milkers. Seriously. We engaged in a very entertaining (to him) game of tug-o-war on my shirt strap. He would drag it down, I would frantically pull it up (laughing, trying to keep conversing smoothly), he pulled it down, I yanked it up. Down. Up. Great fun. At some point I also realized that not only was his diaper full and stinky, it was also LEAKING all over my not-very-concealing tank top. So now, to add to the fact that my flip flops didn’t match my earrings, my nails hadn’t been painted since last Christmas, I had almost no make up on, and I was 6 inches bigger than every other woman in the room, I had shown EVERYONE IN THE VICINITY INCLUDING 2 MALE CO-WORKERS (yeah, another one showed up) my lacy pink bra AND I smelled like shit. Literally. Clearly TLC won’t be calling me for the next episode of dance moms anytime soon. Or maybe they will. Did you hear about the episode featuring the giant, half-naked ex-jock who smelled like poop?