Another dance competition weekend.
The name of the competition is PAC – Precision Arts Competition, and on the way there, my daughter Josephine explained that their gimmick is they sound some kind of siren at the end of certain dances and those girls get to be in a freestyle contest before awards. “That’s when the audience gives the dancers feedback,” Jo explained.
“I get to be a judge?” I asked. “Incredible.”
Maybe THIS is what dance competitions are missing for me. I think I’d be WAY less annoyed at sitting in an uncomfortable dark theatre if I knew I could boo at dancers.
“Get off the stage! I’ve seen 8-year-olds dance better than that!”
“Sir, she’s FIVE.”
“Well her tendu looks like SHIT.”
I think another thing that would make it more tolerable is if I could throw stuff. Like, how much more fun would sitting there be if I could just peg a preteen with a rotten tomato? Of course, I’d save the unripe avocados for any kid dancing to “Smooth Criminal.” They deserve bruises.
It was clear the kids in every number spent their entire routine trying to get the buzzer, and they’d be visibly disappointed after their numbers finished when they didn’t get it.
“I swear to Christ, if you don’t get that buzzer, you’re walking home,” I told Josephine before she went on. “I’m not raising losers.”
She didn’t end up getting buzzed, but it wasn’t because of her dancing. I think it was because her name ends in the wrong vowel.
The four girls who got picked were Lila, Ava, Emma, and Lena. Sorry Susan, Kay, and Jennifer. Try softball.
The A-Team didn’t set the world on fire during the freestyle contest. They looked listless, like the platform dancers on MTV Spring Break. I tore through my bag for something to throw, eager for my chance to give them the feedback their lackluster performances so deserved. But the only thing I found that I was willing to part with was a tube of Burt’s Bees, and I felt like unless I really hucked it I wouldn’t have even left a welt.
It didn’t matter because my chance to heckle never came. When the music stopped, all the parents CHEERED.
Did we not just sit through the same garbage? I was told this was our chance to be the judge!
Fine, I thought, squander your opportunity. Give your kid all the undeserving false praise and let them grow up thinking they’re special and unique or whatever.
Then again, I wasn’t much better. When the competition was over, I let Josephine get in the car and drive home with us like the indulgent parent I am.
I Don't Belong Here. 