When I was five years old I endured weekly Saturday ballet classes. I begged my father to let me quit. I was dying to play outside with the other neighborhood kids on Saturday mornings. He refused. After some months it was time for my first recital. My family descended from all 5 New York boroughs to see me perform in New Jersey. My pink tutu had sequins. My mother even applied a touch of color to my cheeks. All of the primping beforehand didn’t stop me from freezing as soon as the velvet curtain split, and the bright spotlight burned on me. I shook like a leaf as a warm stream trickled down my tights. My father washed out my garments in the bathroom sink and dried it with a hand drier. Minutes later I was coaxed back out on stage. I went on to become a principle ballerina in a small ballet company.
I am definitely too old for yellow puddles. Newly sober, however, I have time warped back to grappling with some of the challenges 5 year old Anna had to deal with. I literally don’t know what to consider fun. Isn’t that something? I’m a thirty-something year old in the process of defining a good time. I haven’t had a night out without a glass of wine since 2005. I don’t have my dad to push me out on stage. I have to push myself. Many times I go alone. I don’t have time to wait for my husband, friends, and family. I’ve got to figure myself out now so that I can take advantage of all that life has to offer.
The last time I went to the Verizon Center, Gilbert Arenas show boated up and down the court and forgot to leave his gun at home. My girlfriend and I had a good time which increased exponentially as I downed 5 Coronas. I stumbled home. The next morning when I came out of it I noticed 5 missed calls. My girlfriend really wanted to make sure I had gotten home ok.
Last week, I literally dragged myself to a Georgetown game after a long Tuesday at the office. By the time I made it there they were losing by twenty points. The Hoyas made the humiliation complete by chucking air balls at the net and allowing themselves to get dunked on. I tried to make it through at least a quarter but the lack of Hoya hustle made it hard. I started paying attention to the hardwood court. It would definitely look nice in my townhouse. The coeds were swept in a ritual complete with jazz hands (I think), boooos, ooohs, and aaaahs. I didn’t want that shirt gun aimed in my direction. The dog mascot running around the court was pretty cute. Is it a bulldog? My husband confirmed it –it’s a bulldog. I’m not really sure what Cameo’s “Word Up” had to do with the whole thing…The jury is still out on basketball.