Commentary by Danielle Wilson
The 2016 dance season is over, culminating in a six-day trip to Myrtle Beach for nationals. So much to say, only 350 words to convey. Now only 325. Here we go.
Girls just want to have fun. On the drive home, my daughter lamented that she had just spent a week at the ocean but only swam in it twice. When I reminded her that she was there to dance, not frolic on the beach, she announced: “That’s just stupid. Why not just have it in Indianapolis?” Fair enough. And much closer.
When left to their own devices, girls do have a lot of fun. Starting dance parties on the strip with sketchy passengers in idling cars; writing and producing a highly-questionable but immensely-entertaining rap song; sneaking un-choreographed moves into long-rehearsed routines … these kooky kids have imaginations after all!
All dance moms are not created equal. I realized about halfway through the trip that I was not part of the popular crowd. Try as I might to hang with “the fun moms,” I cherish alone time. I love going to bed at 9 p.m. And by God, if I’m near a beach, even one with a conspicuous absence of sand dollars, I’ll be on it. I know I missed out on several juicy conversations, social power walks and delightful bottles of white, but this ginger dance mom earned a C+ tan and a renewed acceptance of self.
Not all dance teams are created equal either. Our girls danced well, but had their booty shorts handed to them by larger, more competitive teams. It was somewhat of a rude awakening for me but also confirmed what I already knew. We’re with a studio who puts fun and friendship first, not perfection. And I’m good with that.
I have a terrible short-term memory. I witnessed a two-car traffic accident one morning and was the sole pedestrian witness. When the cop interviewed me, I couldn’t recall any details. None. “So, you didn’t really see anything, ma’am?” Nope. I guess not.
But I do know a good rap song. Peace out.