So my tap recital is tomorrow night.  Last night was the dress rehearsal.  Since my class is through a parks and rec program, the recital is held at the rec center, which lacks adequate space for even temporary dressing-room facilities.  What this means is that we have to show up at the rec center in full costume, which is not a huge deal, except that the rec center also lacks adequate parking spaces, which means that during T-ball season, we often find ourselves having to park at the shopping center across the street.  So we have to walk from the shopping center to the rec center in full costume, which would not be a huge deal either, except that this year our number has a disco theme.  What that means is that last night I walked from the shopping center to the rec center in black spandex pants (with flared leg, naturally), a bright fuschia sequined top, gaudy jewelry, and heavy glitter make-up.  Which also wouldn’t have been that big a deal, except that I had to wait for a traffic light at a busy intersection in full disco-hussy regalia, and let me tell you, that is just not the outfit you want to loiter in.  That’s all.

I did have some visions of someone trying to flag me down and me waving my tap shoes and screaming, “I’m a dancer!  A dancer, I tell you!  No, REALLY!”

But that didn’t happen.

What did happen was that last night I had a dream that shook my confidence dreadfully.  I won’t bore you with an elaborate set-up, but suffice it to say that in the dream my tap instructor, in front of the entire adult-tap department–which had, incidentally, magically quadrupled in size between reality and dreamland–announced that I was a terrible dancer, that I was the worst in the class, and in fact one of the worst she’d ever had the burden of teaching, and while I had improved in the last couple years, the chances of me ever going onstage and not embarrassing myself were slim to nothing.

I thought that was unfair.

Fortunately, I woke up and was relieved to realize that my tap instructor had done no such thing–at least not in my presence, which is what counts.  My tap instructor’s style  is probably best described as “passive-aggressive drill sergeant,” so the idea that she would single anyone out for public humiliation is somewhat fantastical.  Obviously my dream was born of nothing but my own insecurities.  In my waking state, I know that I am not the worst dancer in my tap class (anymore) and that I am fully capable of performing without embarrassing myself.  Most of the latter is due to the rapid depletion of pride, in my old age, but at least some of it is due to basic competence.  Still, I am shaken.  I’ve had to practice extra-hard today to get my self-esteem back.  Perhaps that’s what my subconscious was trying to get at all along.

In related disturbing news, I’ve learned that both my husband and my nine-year-old daughter like when I dress up like a vintage hooker–though for different reasons.  Neither of which puts my mind at ease.

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