Dancing Queen

We have recitals coming up. I have not kicked anyone mid-cartwheel. Daughter has bounced off The Girls (aka girly parts that protrude from the rib cage) and hit the deck way too many times I care to mention.

Two weeks ago she was to crawl through my legs and *pop* up as I lift her into doing the splits in the air. She cut her crawl short and well…her head was back where it all started, I fell down and got a serious case of dancer giggles, and Coach stopped the music due to our distraction.

Last night I did not think through my workout clothes and went dressed in The Shorts That Should Not Leave The House… plus a Shamrock-emblazoned tank… plus stark-white semi-hairy legs… plus black dance shoes. Then Coach goes, “we’re dancing in front of every $&#%*€?£¥ class in the building tonight” and I’m thrilled one of them is the twenty-year-olds in their tight pants and no undie line and I’m all like, “hey check out my shorts. They’re not supposed to be here.”

I sequined the sh*t out of two shredded tank tops purchased off a dance costume website for far too much money when I could have just cut the damn things myself. I bought the fancy dancer shorts. I have black tights that make spooge spill out the top.

I bought myself eyelashes.

I’m soooo gonna audibly fart during recital.