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First of all on this chilly Tuesday, I'd like to report that my kids are watching a Looney Tunes retrospective thing that one of them recorded on the DVR, and giggling like crazy. Yosemite Sam transcends the ages, you know? And in "Knighty Knight Bugs," when he says with a moue of disgust, "Dragons is so stupid!" I laugh every time. I probably always will. Ethan said, "I like how Bugs Bunny always gets the best of everyone."
Me, too, kid. Bugs is hilarious. All I can think is how much fun my dad would have if he were here. I spent many a Saturday morning snuggled up on the sofa watching these same cartoons with him thirty years ago.
THIRTY years ago.
Gag.
I think I might have just thrown up in my mouth a little bit.
However, that segues nicely into the topic I set out to tackle this morning.
AGE.
I'm feeling every one of my thirty eight years this morning, and maybe a few of however old you are, too. I attended a dance rehearsal last night with the rest of the ensemble of the show, as well as one of the leads. There was nothing too terribly strenuous, only a few light lunges and some prissy walking (I'm sure that has a technical name - but I can't be bothered to think of it or look it up). Seriously, the most difficult move was a three step turn with a fancy pivot/leg flip thing. I had fun. I had a good time. I wasn't lost. It's going to be an amazing number - dare I say - even a showstopper. Nine girls in French maid outfits will do it for half the audience, anyway, just visually.
Here it is at the Tonys.
You get the idea.
What I'm saying is, from what the cute little girls in the fishnets did, I should not feel like someone beat me with a pillowcase full of batteries. I took my body for granted in my twenties. I abused it, for one thing, but I always got out of bed with no issues - just got up and began my day, with the only thing to hinder me being perhaps a little sleepiness. Pffft.
Now? Oh, dear me.
I'm paying for it. It takes a few good steps to get fully upright, because my lower back thinks arising from the prone position is some kind of cruel joke. My ankles and knees are a cacophony of noise - they sound like a particularly loud bowl of Rice Krispies, thanks to dancing for years on less than desirable surfaces in shoes with absolutely no arch support or shock absorption. (Keds? Seriously? Whose idea was it to make that part of the uniform?) And those four years of tap probably don't help, either.
Anyway, this is a long, convoluted post to say... I'm a little sore this morning. But happy. To quote a great Broadway show, I love "to wake up in the morning to find I have somewhere exciting to go." I'll take the soreness. And when I get back to dance rehearsal tonight with the girls IN THEIR TWENTIES (Save one - solidarity, Lissa), I'll be thrilled to be there, however much pain I'm in.
That's after I go see the chiropractor.
Not a joke.
But it's going to take everything in me tonight not to take those sweet girls aside and tell them how GLAD they should be that their body works the way it should without having to prime the pump, as it were. I won't, though. I'm going to refrain.
Maybe the snap, crackle and pop will speak for itself.
Me, too, kid. Bugs is hilarious. All I can think is how much fun my dad would have if he were here. I spent many a Saturday morning snuggled up on the sofa watching these same cartoons with him thirty years ago.
THIRTY years ago.
Gag.
I think I might have just thrown up in my mouth a little bit.
However, that segues nicely into the topic I set out to tackle this morning.
AGE.
I'm feeling every one of my thirty eight years this morning, and maybe a few of however old you are, too. I attended a dance rehearsal last night with the rest of the ensemble of the show, as well as one of the leads. There was nothing too terribly strenuous, only a few light lunges and some prissy walking (I'm sure that has a technical name - but I can't be bothered to think of it or look it up). Seriously, the most difficult move was a three step turn with a fancy pivot/leg flip thing. I had fun. I had a good time. I wasn't lost. It's going to be an amazing number - dare I say - even a showstopper. Nine girls in French maid outfits will do it for half the audience, anyway, just visually.
Here it is at the Tonys.
You get the idea.
What I'm saying is, from what the cute little girls in the fishnets did, I should not feel like someone beat me with a pillowcase full of batteries. I took my body for granted in my twenties. I abused it, for one thing, but I always got out of bed with no issues - just got up and began my day, with the only thing to hinder me being perhaps a little sleepiness. Pffft.
Now? Oh, dear me.
I'm paying for it. It takes a few good steps to get fully upright, because my lower back thinks arising from the prone position is some kind of cruel joke. My ankles and knees are a cacophony of noise - they sound like a particularly loud bowl of Rice Krispies, thanks to dancing for years on less than desirable surfaces in shoes with absolutely no arch support or shock absorption. (Keds? Seriously? Whose idea was it to make that part of the uniform?) And those four years of tap probably don't help, either.
Anyway, this is a long, convoluted post to say... I'm a little sore this morning. But happy. To quote a great Broadway show, I love "to wake up in the morning to find I have somewhere exciting to go." I'll take the soreness. And when I get back to dance rehearsal tonight with the girls IN THEIR TWENTIES (Save one - solidarity, Lissa), I'll be thrilled to be there, however much pain I'm in.
That's after I go see the chiropractor.
Not a joke.
But it's going to take everything in me tonight not to take those sweet girls aside and tell them how GLAD they should be that their body works the way it should without having to prime the pump, as it were. I won't, though. I'm going to refrain.
Maybe the snap, crackle and pop will speak for itself.