the phone rang late. interuptting yet another dream about trying to have sex. that’s the theme of the weekend, dreams about trying to have sex. the phone rang late and there was talk of moving and california and work killing me and giving up everything i own (even the new oven mitts) for someone to be happy i am home. there was talk and now i cannot sleep
my throat is aching like i’ve cried 1000 tears today. but i didn’t cry 1000 tears. i did cry, inexplicably, while watching the Showsteppers American Dance Competition this morning. but it wasn’t 1000 tears. it was about 10 tears. oddly enough there were loads of Canadians winning the Showsteppers American Dance Competition.
i am not sure why i cried. i just did. i probably cried over some deep-seated envy watching little dancer girls twirl. i wanted to be a ballerina once. oh, how i loved all the tutus and pink shoes. i would read book after book about ballerinas. i wanted a shiny, pink “stage door” jacket, like hope olson’s. stage door was the dance school to be in. oh, i wanted to dance. but mom told me i was too big and tall to be a dancer. i was crushed at 12 by the burden of my own 6-foot height and my mother’s desire to protect me from rejection.