. . . my dancing feet. Care to guess which set of gams belongs to me?
Is 39 too old for chorus girl? Hell, I guess not since I'm just getting started. And when you got my legs and move them like I do, I should be playing a bigger role in our community theater production of 42nd Street (uh-hum, snap to those who decided). Actually I feel a little more like this when I'm all prettied up for the stage:
OK so maybe there is an upper age limit on what is right. I'm tired, cranky, I miss getting fat on the couch with my kids, I missed most of American Idol and I'll miss So You Think You Can Dance, my ego hurts, my feet hurt, my brain hurts (I've killed a heck of a lot more brain cells than these 20-somethings, so give me a break). But as silly as it sounds, and it is silly, I'm indulging a dream I've had since I was little: to sing and dance in a musical production. And this is a good one. It'll all be over at the close of June. All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up. After this I may just cram all my dreams down the throats of my boys. Come on boys, pick up those feet and lay 'em down.