Monday is the day I go to dance class with Grace. We hovering parents (I’m the only Dad in there-the rest are Moms) are not allowed to watch the kids dance…we wait in the lobby of the dance studio. We can hear what is going on, but not see it. All of which assures me that Dancing with the Stars will never been on the radio.
Anyway, I sit in the lobby. The first week, I didn’t take anything to do, figuring the magazine rack would suffice. This was a stupid move as the magazines in the lobby all have the word “dance” in the title. So I quietly sat there while the hovering parents talked about their kids.
(The most talkative parent in the room starts EVERY sentence with “Gracie is/did/does/thinks/has/went/said/vomited”…etc, etc. This is quite annoying. Her child is named Grace also...perfect)
The ladies talk about vacations, doctor visits (their kids), school teachers, cooking, and other things. Half of them are married and talk about their husbands and the other half aren’t married and talk about their ex-husbands, usually with more respect than the married ones show.
I take a book. I do not speak unless spoken to (three weeks…I’m still waiting). Last week, I was reading “The Count of Monte Cristo” while one of the ladies talked about how their yard is a mess and her husband wouldn’t do anything about it.
Meanwhile, in my book, Edmond Dantes is in prison, falsely convicted with no hope of mercy. And I couldn’t decide who I’d rather be…
