We missed mother-daughter dance class the previous week. Coach taught the group more steps when we were gone so when class started daughter and I were lost.
“Just do what you know,” said Coach, in an attempt to get us up to speed. Little did she know I did do what I know and damn I rocked it.
The music is always too fast. We’re cruising through the parts we do know and then we arrive at the point of the unknown. Other (normal) moms finish their part when the music stops. Not me. No. I am spinning in place thinking I’ve got this. During the spin I let one rip. Like full-on ripping denim sounding fart. It’s something I know and I’m good at. My body’s good at it.
At this point the moms are in a straight line directly to my right. The daughters are in a straight line to my left. My audible and I are the base of this V-shaped disaster with darling daughter, the understanding child of mine, right next to me, hiding her face in her hands. I see a physical ripple of mom heads turning to each other with “did she just do that?” “was that a fart?” “did that just happen?” working its way to the right with Coach at the end. She starts laughing. The daughters, now clearly understanding what happened, are screaming and pretending it stinks.
So I did what anyone should do in this situation. I yell out, “Okay! Now that we have that out of the way, can we learn the next move?!”