A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || August 21, 2007 || 10:39 pm

Just another yarn.

So yeah, when I was very, very tiny I asked my mother for dance lessons. She didn’t immediately acquiesce, which could surprise me if I viewed the matter in a particular light. I mean, here was an opportunity to pull me out of the sandbox, out of the tree, out of The Land Of Boys And Ripped, Dirty Dresses. The opportunity to set me in the midst of other female creatures, where I would stay fairly clean and (likely) not get into a fistfight. As a parent now myself, though, I completely understand: You can’t run about indulging a child’s every whim. That would be a phenomenal waste of time, resources and effort. A kid’s gotta want something for a couple of minutes so that it will be savory to him when he finally gets to indulge.

No matter how much my mother wanted to see me in unbesmirched powder pink and precise bun, she had to hold herself in reserve to see how dead-set I was on having this latest idea come to fruition.

I didn’t nag her, but I kept mentioning it every few weeks until she took me seriously enough to haul my ass on downtown, up three flights of stairs and into the walkup studio of Miss Maytelle, which overlooked the stately Catholic Church and –beyond it– the Mississippi River. Damn near every sentimental thing I’ve ever experienced has the Old Man as its backdrop.

I spent two evenings per week in that studio over the course of the next couple of years. There is a lot to remember about that time, I’m sure, but the most pressing and moving of them is captured cleanly; it rests bright and calm on my gallery wall of memories, there among a great busy clutter of childhood moments.

I remember the way the light flicked golden and dim from those great broad windows. It made the floors and our shoes and our legs positively glow; dust motes became glittering air-jewelry that hopped and danced along with us.

There was tap and then there was ballet. I was all for the tap lessons, but beyond being a bit of a showoff about my limber tendencies, the ballet bored me. Just before the two-year mark, ballet slippers stuffed into the pockets of my woolen coat and tap shoes adorning my hands, I climbed into my mother’s Mustang and said evenly, “I don’t want to take these lessons anymore.” and that was that. Mother withdrew me and earnest pleas for a piano of my own began gathering steam.

I guess I got bored. I’m not really sure. All I know is that one day I had visions of tapping across a stage, prodigy-like, with Sammy Davis, Jr. and the next I was all, “Meh, I’m over it I reckon.”

Tonight I saw a (OF ALL THE THINGS!) Burger King commercial, and in it were all these ballerinas in green satin pointe shoes. I couldn’t stop looking at those shoes! Then, up out of nowhere, a voice spoke loudly and matter-of-factly in my head.

“I never would’ve quit Miss Maytelle had I known about GREEN SATIN POINTE SHOES.”

2 worked it out »

  1. c 8.21.2007

    sometimes you are just too drunk to dial

     
  2. Jettomatika 8.21.2007

    BUT YOU ALWAYS HAVE BAIL MONEY IN YOUR SOCK, MUTHAFUKKA!

    Also, the funniest part I fully forgot to tell j00: When you drunkdialed me the other night? I was totally in the middle of drunkdialing someone else. That way bends some sort of universal law, I’m sure of it.

     

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