I am a 44-year-old woman, and not much excites me anymore. I like it when they get into fights on The View and I have re-read the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy six times. My day is taking the girls to school, then Lindsey to dance practice, and making food for the household. I get it, I chose this life.
But this is the winter jazz dance recital. It comes once a year. So if you could get your camcorder out of my view, Janice, I would really appreciate it. Because this is my inspiration. I’m ready to be floored.
No, I’m not here for my daughter. I’m here to watch Melinda fucking destroy this jazz recital.
Melinda D. is a nine-year-old dance powerhouse and veritable force in the entertainment industry of Overland Park, Kansas. Her confidence gets me through my worst days. The days when I can’t bring myself to write another diary entry (that will hopefully turn into my memoir! Or a blog maybe.), or when Idina’s ballads just aren’t doing it for me anymore (she, like, got divorced! We can all fall.), Melinda’s kick-twirl -touch combo from the Spring ’12 recital flashes before me, and I feel like a woman again. A strong woman. Who can do things. Who can change things. I have power.
Melinda is my Oprah.
When I took my nine-year-old daughter, Lindsey, to Sue’s Dance Studio in the strip mall for her first modern jazz dance lessons, I had no idea what sort of wake-up call that I was in store for.
My life is fine. It’s normal. It’s better than living alone. But Jesus Christ, I just need some inspiration to get through the day! I’ve never felt so empowered as a female creature than when Melinda steps out in her Capezios onto the stage to that song from Hairspray. She performs as if she’s been through some shit.
Melinda is my Beyonce.
Yes, my daughter, Lindsey, is in the mix up there somewhere on stage, but Melinda has something. The “it” factor. An unexplainable confidence that reminds me that feminism is alive and well. I bet she goes home and fucking writes. I bet she shows the other girls at school who the fuck she is and that they better follow or die. Did you see her unitard after practice last week? IT WAS YELLOW. No one can pull off yellow. She walked around like she didn’t give a shit. I want that.
Lindsey is kind of good at math.
Mr. Clark, if you could please move one seat or two over, so that your head does not obstruct my view of Melinda’s solo finale number in the cafetorium, I would REALLY appreciate it. No, that’s not mine up there. But look at that hair. Look at that essence. Just let her fucking destroy “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” with her jazz leaps and then you can move back in front of me.
I’m not here for my daughter. Tell her I’ll be outside warming up the car. I am fulfilled.