Yesterday at lunchtime, I stampeded across town to the damn dance store, which is its official name. Greensboro’s Damn Dance Store! We’re open stupid times!
When I got there, I realized I’d tensed up, in the worry that they’d be closed Mondays or some other similar irritating thing. But they were not! There they were, all open and shit.
I’d have taken photos, but it was really a small boutique kind of place, and there was one other person in there, a rather demanding-seeming woman over in the kids’ section. Which, by the way, seemed to dominate. And you know how I am. “Oooo, tiaras! …Oh. They’re for kids. Dammit.” “Oooo! Tote bags that read “ballet” in glitter! …Teensy, for kids. Dammit.”
A very helpful saleswoman got me m’shoes,
and also some yoga pants that I am delighted to report were kind of too big. Naturally, I cut the tags off them before trying them on, because that’s the kind of careful planning that’s resulted in the delicately elegant life I’ve created for myself.
When work ended, I checked the time and locale of my dance class; I’d already emailed the place to reserve a spot. It had been a lovely, warm and blowy–but not THAT kind of blowy–day, and I was happy to have a few minutes to come home and hang with the entourage, the four-legged entourage, my FURBABIES (sigh) before heading to my 7 o’clock class.
This sums up all of my quality time with Steely Dan.
But look. Here’s six seconds of autumnal calm, now with falling leaves!
Anyway. At 6:30. I left the house, got downtown–where I will not mention the mental status of any old men–found, like, TV parking right outside the building, and sauntered into the “cultural” center.
I don’t know why I’m cynical about that. But you know what? I got in there, and it was pretty cool! It was so, you know, cultural. I turned into yogurt, it was so cultured.
I found the room where my class was to begin at 7:00, and?
Everyone was ballet-ing. Ballet-ing hard. Because the class had started 45 minutes before.
I WANTED Absolute Beginner, Ballet. I read the TIME for Absolute Beginner, Modern.
I needed an Absolut.
So, I sat on a comfy metal bench, right outside the class, and watched my coworker finish his ballet, just like my parents used to have to do when I took ballet from the winged-eyeliner lady circa 1973. I talked to another parent, who was doing her homework and was probably delighted to have to hear my plight about the wrong time and so on. Then I kibitzed with my coworker when he was done, and when I got back outside, after promising to come back AT THE RIGHT TIME next week?
Storm. Don’t know why, there’s no sun up in the sky. Other than the fact that it’s 7:15 in October. Stormy weather, since that man and I ain’t together. It’s raining all the am I blue.
That was only funny if you know my Am I Blue/asking gramma for the lyrics to Stormy Weather story.
You know what I like? People who don’t scroll up. Like, we’ll have a big chain of comments going, here or on Facebook of June, and someone wanders on and asks something we addressed four comments ago. I adore that.
Anyway, here’s an unretouched photo of JOOON, having been caught in the RAAAAAIN on the way home from dance class where she didn’t DAAAAANCE. I have no idea why I’m talking like that.
It was scary rain, scary driving rain where driving is scary.
Oooo, also, while I was waiting for my coworker last night, I noticed a particularly lovely woman, who actually I’d noticed dancing before she was even milling around after class. She looked the way a ballerina should look, and then after class, she put on the best pair of multicolored chunky heels, and I was in great admiration.
After class, I drove through the driving rain to the grocery store, and guess who was there, over in the wine aisle. So I said, “Hey, I just saw you at that ballet class,” and we ended up talking for a long time, and said, “See you next week,” and soon she will be giving me those shoes, so enamored will she be of All Things June.
Speaking of which, yesterday in Facebook of June, I asked y’all all what the most stalky thing you’ve done was, regarding me and my unblog and my life, such as it is. I’d read this subject on a Reddit thread, titled, “How far is too far for stalking our blog reads” or something like that.
I figured you’d Zillowed my house or Googled my real name or what have you.
You’ve researched Marvin’s girlfriends and found Ned’s place of employment. You figured out where TinyTown was and sought out that author I briefly went out with.
But my favorite, my very favorite, was the person who ended up sitting behind Ned and me at a play, after we’d been long broken up and there we were, holding hands. This was last year. I’d like to throw that caveat out there. Last year, before we officially reunited for six weeks or whatever it was.
Anyway, here we are, NOT KNOWING a reader was behind us, texting our scandalous photo.
It should be noted said reader’s spouse was appalled by her, and this is just how men are, and why they have to be so weird is beyond me. Because of COURSE she took a photo. I would have, too.
I gotta go. Since you’re all behind me right now, you know it’s late and I haven’t showered.