I have always wanted to be a clogger. I have always wanted to take clogging lessons and perform in cute outfits.
And when I found out that Z would be a girl, I envisioned it all in my mind. The mother-daughter clogging lessons, the matching outfits, her curls bouncing in rhythm.
|How stinkin' cute is that?|
I also don't know how to move my body at all. I have rarely ever danced in public and I blame it on my hands. Where do I put my hands? Should I run them through my hair? Should I hold them straight at my sides? Do I try to cram them in my pockets or hide them behind my back? Why do I have hands? Aaaaah.
It's a lot to deal with and no matter how often I look at other girls trying to figure it out, the result for me is always the same. And then, I look like I am staring at these girls and they want to know what my problem is. I am amazed that I have not been killed in some sort of bitchy girl bar fight. Dancing presents too much pressure for me.
So do bars. I don't like bars. I am much too awkward to hang out, trying to figure out how to dance, sober, watching people much younger than me imitate doing things that I wouldn't even do now. Home is safer. Dancing at home with the munchkin is not nearly as dangerous.
I also do not watch any of the gazillion sleep inducing dance shows that are on TV. It's all so boring to me, watching people waltz and tango and cha cha cha.
But I do want to clog.
In January, classes start for our local clogging group and I really want to do it. Z cannot join in the fun until she is 5 which will give me a chance to figure out if I am really going to do it before taking her along.
Maybe I can figure out what to do with my hands between now and then.