My daughter danced in her recital yesterday. She performed in three numbers plus the finale. Numbers 3, 35, 42, and 45.
As you might imagine, I spent a lot of time not watching my daughter onstage.
When she was onstage, there was a lot of dancing, along with waving at us, pointing at us, and methodically deconstructing her costume during one song.
My daughter is a joyous dancer, but she’s not the most focused when it comes to choreography.
At one point, I excused myself to stretch my legs and stepped into the lobby. In the less than ten minutes I spent there, I witnessed the following:
A wife spoke on the phone to her husband, who had overslept after a nap and missed all three of their daughter’s dances, apparently all scheduled during the first half of the show. She was clearly upset and warned her husband to lie to their daughter if asked if Daddy saw her performance.
A couple of minutes later, the husband appeared, snatched the bouquet of flowers from his wife, and entered the auditorium like a petulant little boy, with his wife trailing behind apologetically.
I honestly wanted to stop the couple in their tracks and advise them to end things now, sparing themselves a lifetime of unhappiness together. The man is clearly a douchebag (not to mention the kind of man who takes naps on a Saturday afternoon), and his wife, from all appearances, is a doormat. The relationship is doomed and rightfully so.
Better to find a way to move on now than drag out the pain for months or years.
I refrained from saying anything, but I wondered if there might be a career opportunity here.
Relationship evaluator? Marital coach? Professional breaker-upper?
While this was going on, a doctor was standing near the stairs, taking a call from a patient. I heard him say, “I don’t understand why you waited until now to tell someone that your foot is turning green. Is your primary care physician working today?”
A doctor’s life is never as glamorous as I imagine.
Then the auditorium doors burst open, and a man charged out, holding a six- or seven-year-old boy in his arms like a load of firewood. The kid was screaming, “I’m not going outside! I’m not going outside!” The man countered with, “You’re fucking going outside, so shut the hell up!”
Despite the lad’s poor behavior, this was probably not the best way to handle the situation.
I couldn’t believe what was happening in the lobby in the span of a few minutes. I don’t mind watching little kids dance, especially when they make hilarious mistakes, but the lobby provided more entertainment than any dance could (save my daughter’s performances, of course).
Finally, I re-entered the auditorium, only to see a middle-aged woman at the back of the aisle dancing with more enthusiasm than the ten-year-old girls on stage. The woman had apparently mistaken this children’s recital for a dance party and was doing her best to garner as much attention as possible.
Being second in line when the doors opened, we had snagged seats in the third row. Little did I know how boring the recital would be so close to the stage.
On a positive note, the recital was delightful. My daughter dances in a low-stakes dance company, so rather than cracking the whip and ensuring precision, children are allowed to make many hilarious mistakes and have fun.
It’s always refreshing to see adults treating children like children. It doesn’t happen enough in organized sports and similar activities these days.
I was also pleased to see that her teachers did not perform during the recital. As a veteran of many dance recitals, I know it’s common to see instructors perform onstage, often in the first or last dance of the show.
I have always found this to be pathetic and sad.
This would be the equivalent of me performing a scene in my students’ upcoming Shakespearean production or reading a poem during their graduation performances.
Clara’s instructors were standing in the wings, just out of sight, pleading with the children to stop waving at their parents and dance a little.
Just where they belonged.
