Sometimes my inner little kid wakes up & says, “Holy crap, Tara, YOU’RE DOING IT,” which is to say I somehow became a Real Dancer, as in…a grown-up. Who gets paid. To Dance.
Times when I forget that include:
- when I’m staring forlornly at my impossibly colorful Google calendar
- when I’m standing in my living room mesmerized by Beyonce’s thigh for like three hours because I’m trying to get the Single Ladies moves right
- when I’m wearing a cape and laying on the ground waiting for instructions
- when I’m trying to remember the difference between Lenin & Trotsky but all I can think of is Variations on the Death of Trotsky
- when I’m at work
- when I’m cleaning the cat box at midnight
- and many more!
It doesn’t look how I thought it would when I was a kid, but when I think about it, I like it.