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Women on the verge of a recital
© St. Petersburg Times, CARROLLWOOD -- It's her. And it's me. Her: Purposeful, efficient, mouth set in a line of determination, like she's about to climb Mount Everest. Or say the letter M. Me: Maybe you've seen the chaos that is my office. We share one significant trait on this Saturday morning. Both of us are late buying tickets for a dance recital. Our children practice their cartwheels and arabesques at a studio that is older than many of these subdivisions. The kind of place that spawns pop stars. Where instructors are instructed to say "the dance." And as de rigueur as the toast-colored tights is Spring Recital. They pull out all stops for this June event at Gaither High School. Dress rehearsal is mandatory, and it's also the only place you are allowed to photograph your child. Bring a camera to the actual show and they will make you stash it in your car. You can purchase a professional videotape, just one of the many ancillary costs. Costume, recital fee, trophy (optional), flowers (we'll buy ours at Publix). It adds up to a number in the hundreds, almost the cost of a full year's instruction. You hope, after all this lavish preparation, that your child doesn't have a raging head cold on the big day. Or lose interest mid-year, as mine did with gymnastics and karate. What messed me up, though, was the directive to buy tickets on Sunday at 1 p.m. I had a work commitment that day and thought I'd just wait. "You waited?" a more experienced dance mom chortled, days later. "I was there on Sunday and I heard people were standing in line at 7 o'clock in the morning." This woman also told me parents line up at 7 a.m. for the best preschool teacher, so I wasn't buying it. But now, as I try to amuse my younger child in the dancing school's crowded anteroom, I catch various transactions between women who were there on Sunday and women who weren't, but had the foresight to strike side deals with those who were. One woman tells another, apologetically, that she got the best seats she could. She says someone was in line at 6 a.m. Flashbacks to rock concerts of the 1970s. Could they be sold out? I share that fear with another friend whose daughter dances with mine. How will I tell Grandma and Aunt Susan? Will my husband think I'm stupid? The friend also has a younger child with her. So I hatch a plan, because tickets are going on sale again after class. "You watch the four children and I'll get tickets for all of us," I tell her. Because that other woman, who looks like she's saying M, is already staking out the ticket seller. Our plan goes awry. While my son is hurling a McDonald's Beanie Baby at the trophy table, my friend digs for her checkbook, leaving me vulnerable as the M woman coasts to the lead. How many tickets would she like? Ten, she says. At this moment I am glad I possess a uniquely sensible, almost Zen personality that does not allow for hysteria over dance tickets. I have a counterplan that will park my son with Grandma during the show while Aunt Susan goes her own way and my husband and I beg two lonely tickets. I have done insanely embarrassing things on my daughter's behalf. But line up at 6 a.m. to see her dance? They are not sold out. In fact, the ticket seller asks for our children's names, looks them up in a loose-leaf notebook and selects seats as close as possible to their assigned spots on stage. No wonder the school is older than the subdivisions. "Are they good seats?" I ask, and she looks at me like I have two heads. I am not embarrassed. I did nothing wrong. I did nothing extreme. But I'm shopping for children's vitamins just the same.
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