Therapy’s expensive…

but dance is free. This is my new therapy. There is no other place that clears my head, frees my mind from whatever chains I’ve wrapped it in than this place. Sitting here alone, in the quiet, on the cold floor is the cliched couch in the therapist’s office.

When I’ve failed as a mother or as a wife or when the noise and chaos of life gets to me I come here.

The ballet barre has never lied to me. Never rolled its eyes at me. It tempts me but never with promises that I’ll feel better or that it will love me but with the promise that after an hour of hanging on to it for dear life that I can let go and when I step back into my real life that I might stumble but I won’t fall.

The barre is my groove…my mojo. I love that when I lose said groove I know where to find it.

So to my mother who drove me to dance every night and sat in the car for hours….thank you. And to my teachers, even the one who I can thank for my future hip replacement….thank you.

After the disaster that was my morning,I wanted to park in front of Sweet Frog until they opened. Instead I left it here on the cold floor. Two bruised knees and one banged up elbow later, I feel better.

It may not have looked as pretty on the outside as it did when I was 18 but it felt fucking awesome.



Sweet Baby Jane

I was reviewing my blog stats for the last six months and noticed that every blog since November has been a complete downer.  Let me lighten the mood just a little.  Today’s story is the tale of a girl who wants her way all the time, refuses to ask for help, and whose attitude, for lack of a better word, sucks.

It’s not me.  Surprise, surprise. I’m actually full of sunshine most of the time.  Today’s subject is Jane.  My sweet little baby.  When did we go from this……

Baby Jane

to this?Angry Jane

In the course of 24 hours, Jane has declared that she is no longer dancing, that Daddy is “lame” and that everything is “boring.”  Not to mention that she called me awkward the other day.  Shit. My four-year old called me awkward.  I was hoping the kids would get to the teenage years before they started thinking of me in unflattering terms.  I was wrong.

I can only imagine that Jane is picking up these choice phrases from her big sister.  The most disturbing thing is that she knows what these phrases mean and uses them in the right context.  I expected Maddie to start with the attitude.  She’s 8 going on 15.  The difference between the sisters is that Maddie will say these things about me behind closed doors. Jane does it to my face. Every now and again Maddie will give me the slightest attitude, take one look at my face, and decide that it’s probably not a good idea to piss Mommy off.

Jane gives me an attitude, I give her the look, she gives me the look back, sits on the floor with her hands crossed and pretends I don’t exist.  Nice. It’s the four-year old child’s equivalent to the middle finger.  Now, if she were not my child, I might find this amusing.  She is my child.  It’s not. I’ve decided to look on the bright side of things because if I don’t, the next 14 years are going to be painful. I’m sure these personality traits will benefit her in the future.

She’s strong-willed. Translation: When she runs into the occasional problem in life, she’s most likely not going to give up until she’s figured it out.

She’s feisty.  Translation: Jane rarely settles for anything less than what she wants.  Combined with her strong-willed nature, she will be ruling the world by 30. I know she always find a way to have a good time.  I expect her childhood will be filled with good memories.

She loves men. Translation: There is no bright side to this one.  I feel bad for the three boys she’s already calling her future husbands.  I feel worse for my husband.

Honestly, I don’t know where gets this attitude from.



Danger: Writing When Pissed

Welcome to my rant.  It should be short.  Won’t be sweet.  I am 37 years old.  Most likely I am in the middle of a cliché ridden mid-life crisis. I am too old for bullshit and the last thing I need before I go buy a sports car and tattoo a heart on my ass is to deal with people who don’t deal in the truth.

You know who you are.  You look in the mirror and staring back at you is the self-righteous image of someone who has yet to admit to themselves that they may not be perfect. I know the truth. And I bite my tongue.  And I close my eyes but I still deal with your truth even if you don’t.

Your clothes are perfect. Never a hair out of place. You always say the right thing.  You judge others.  You judge me. Never would you look in the mirror and admit to yourself what the rest of us already know about ourselves and you.  Would you ever say to yourself, “I am sometimes  a complete fucked up mess.”

For months, I’ve been out of sorts.  Uneasy in my own skin.  Not anymore.  I finally have found the solution to my problem.  I no longer run from the version of myself that has scared the shit out of me for the last few months.  The girl who always wanted to keep her shit together is gone. Left is a woman who knows what she wants. I’ve embraced her.  She’s always been here. As Paul Simon says, after changes, upon changes, we are more or less the same.  I’ve just hidden her from most. I tried to fit into the mold assigned to me.  Fuck that.

Perfection is exhausting and impossible.  I’m blessed to have people in my life that tolerate my craziness and, not only tolerate it, but love me unconditionally for it.  I’ve fucked up in the past and I’m guaranteed to fuck up in the future. And I’m okay with that.

So, before you judge me or the woman in her pajamas dropping her kid off at school or the woman in front of you at the grocery store buying her kids beefaroni, ask yourself if you’re happy.  Because I guarantee the woman in her pajamas is and most likely beefaroni lady is too.  I know I am.  Are you?

Have the balls to look in the mirror and own your feelings.  Raise your glasses ladies, here’s to our messy, always imperect happiness.