Waiting
I’m not good at waiting. Never have been. Please don’t text that you’re stopping by my house in a few minutes because my day will be completely lost until you arrive. I won’t want to start a television show that will be interrupted. I won’t want to play the piano because I might not hear the doorbell. I won’t want to sit on the potty because, dang it, you might ring just about the time I get comfortable. And then, of course, there’s the anxiety about my dog, Prince, who is not fond of visitors or doorbells. If I know exactly when you’ll arrive, I can put him in the back yard and maybe—just maybe—have a few minutes to welcome you before he tries to come through the window for you. If I put him out too far in advance,...
Dancing
I’ve never been a dancer. The ballet performances I did at age six for my mother, wearing my homemade tutu, a slip that was silky at top and flared out in rough crinoline at the bottom, would never have drawn applause from anyone else. It takes a bit more than passion to please an audience. I did the twist, the jerk and the pony when listening to music with my preteen friends in the confines of one of our homes. But do any of those dances in public? No. I survived school dances as a teen because by moving in rhythm with the music, I looked like I knew what I was doing. Of course, slow dancing with a boyfriend was a piece of cake since there wasn’t much movement involved beyond making sure you weren’t separated by even a fraction of an inch....
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