It’s been well over a year since I signed up Aura for her first dance class. And almost a year since I blogged about my recital qualms, and then the ensuing recital hijinks. (Ah, hijinks. Entirely maladroit here, yet there is not nearly enough usage of hijinks these days. That and décolletage. Oh, and bamboozle. We need a lot more bamboozled décolletage, society. I’m not sure what that would involve, but I’m guessing Katy Perry.)
Since then, I’ve grown rather fond of our Friday dance-class schedule. This year we even threw tap into the mix, and the chaotic flurry of an armful of little girls frantically changing from whispery ballet slippers to loud, clacky tap shoes is pretty fun. I’ve finally sunk into the routine and had begun imagining this year’s recital: a natty little Gene Kelly-esque tap number, perhaps, followed by a watery, flowery snippet of Swan Lake.
I had plans to buy a Real Camera and everything. Get myself a new contact lens prescription so that I could actually see the stage. I had BIG plans. Epic. Huge, monstrous plans.
Then we went to class last Friday. As they greeted the kids, the teachers told them that the class would begin to rehearse its recital number that afternoon. A few minutes later, as I sat with the other mothers, the strains of an…oddly unfamiliar-familiar song drifted into the waiting area. Conversation came to a screeching halt.
Then one mother swallowed, loudly.”Is that…?” she started, unable to finish.
“Yes,” another mother replied. “My God. I think it is him.”
“Who?” I said, knowing only that this song did not sound like anything Gene Kelly had sung. IT WAS NOT NATTY.
A fourth mother slumped down in her chair, hands hopelessly splayed across her lap.
“It’s Barry Manilow,” she whispered.
Proof that you should NEVER LET YOUR GUARD DOWN: