Tag Archives: dancing

Girly Stuff I Never Learned

When Nora announced she wanted to take ballet lessons, I was of course supportive, but also amused because as a child (and adult!), I was the furthest thing from a graceful dancer. Or any kind of dancer. I don’t exactly walk straight.

I was a soccer player. And generally a tomboy who partook in nothing classically “girly.”

But when your child is excited about something (that is actually productive and not mind-numbingly stupid, like Candyland or football), you hop on board. So I got her the necessary gear and dropped her off for her very first ballet class. I was pretty proud of how professional she looked in her lavender leotard, pink ballet slippers and ballerina bun. No one could ever guess her mom had to google “stuff for ballet?” in order to get her ready for class.

Then when I picked her up…

Instructor: “Hi there! You’re Nora’s mom?”

Me: “I am!”

Instructor: “In case you’re wondering why Nora’s barefoot— I had her take off her shoes for class.”

Me: “Oh, were they hurting her?”

Instructor: “No, she couldn’t point her toes in them.”

Me: “Oh. Because they’re too small?”

Instructor: “No. Because they’re not ballet slippers.”

Me: “They’re not?”

Instructor: “No.”

Me: “They look like ballet slippers to me!”

Instructor: “Ok. They are not, though.”

Me: “How can one even tell these aren’t ballet slippers?”

Instructor: “Well, you can tell because they’re not slippers. And they’re not, you know…for ballet.”


“Well then what kind of shoes ARE these?”

Instructor: “Pink shoes. Flats. They are pink flats. With a rounded toe.”

Me: “For…?”

Instructor: “Walking? Wearing to school? Or a party? They’re for anything, really. Except, of course, ballet.”

Me: “Ok, well. You can see my confusion.”

Instructor: “I cannot.”

Sure I’ll Take Full Credit

I took Nora to a music class in the park this morning, and the kid next to her was dancing up a storm:

Me: “Look at her go! How old is she?”

Nanny: “Just turned one. Her Mom used to be a Rockette, so you can see she got the dancing gene.”

Me: “Totally! That’s great.”

Nanny: “Your baby has good rhythm too! You must be a really good dancer!”

Me: “Well, I don’t want to brag but….yes. Yes I am.”

Actual footage of me at my friend’s wedding this weekend:




Real Story: A guest at our wedding is a friend of Ben Platt’s parents. This guest told Ben’s parents that “You Will Be Found” was our first dance song, and Ben’s parents told Ben, who then very graciously offered to autograph a photo for us.

Story I tell myself: Oh, NBD but Ben Platt reads and loves the blog. Huge fan of mine. He knows I love Dear Evan Hansen and that “You Will Be Found” was our wedding song, so he contacted our photographer and arranged this whole surprise for us because, you know, that’s the kind of thing celebrities do for their fellow celebrity friends.

Story I tell others: One of the two above, depending on how well I know you and your ability to fact-check.


Not Who I Am

The parent of one of my students asked about my upcoming wedding.

Parent: “So are you and your fiance taking dance lessons for your first dance?”
Me: “Oh no no. No, no, no.”
Parent (laughing): “I should have known, you’re both already great dancers, huh?”
Me: “Oh my god, NO. I mean, he is. I’m not.”
Parent: “Oh. So why not take lessons? Then you’ll be completely rehearsed and confident that night, you’ll know exactly what you’re doing, and you won’t have to worry!”
Me: “Yeah. That’s just not who I am as a person.”


Why I Don’t Go To Clubs

Last night I went to a club.

No, not a country club.

A club where the music is loud, the crowds are abundant and sweaty (me always being the sweatiest) and everyone is super drunk.

Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t even understand what clubs aremuch less go to them. I don’t even like leaving my Upper East Side neighborhood, and on the rare occasion I do make it downtown, it’s to pursue a buzzed-about meal of bacon, or because I fell asleep on the subway and got lost.

But last night I made the exception for a friend’s dad’s birthday party. Yes, you read that correctly. My friend’s dad, David, the coolest 60-year-old on earth, decided to celebrate his birthday by clubbing in New York City. And it just so happens that the only way you’re going to get me to go to a club is if you tell me that a 60-year-old man and all his 60-year-old friends will be at a reserved table with bottle service.

I’m not being sarcastic. That is my ideal club situation.

So I went with bells on, and we had a blast! David is cooler at age 60 than I ever was or ever will be at any point in my life. And his wife doesn’t look a day over 35. (They also happen to be the loveliest people ever, but I feel that is secondary to how fucking great they look). #lifegoals

So we all partied until 3am, when David decided it was time to call it a night, and the rest of us didn’t really see a point in being there without him.

At 4am I went to bed thinking to myself, “Huh, look at me! I totally CAN do this club thing!” and I gave myself a soft little pat on the back as I drifted into a self-satisfied slumber.

At 5am I projectile vomited. EVERYWHERE.

In the bed. Across my nightstand. Onto the wall. All over my iPhone, alarm clock, and various electrical cords. Then again, at 6am, in the toilet.

David woke up this morning feeling great.



(This was the best selfie we managed to take last night. #notgood)