Dear Life’s Constants,

Everyone claims that you are only death and taxes. No matter what, you will always be a part of human existence. You are expected; You are not surprises. People will be taxed, somehow. People will die, somehow.

I disagree.

I believe that you are parades and dance recitals. These are two things that never change and people will always end up at one or the other. People will be either in or at a parade, somehow. People will be in or at a dance recital, somehow.

Regrettably, I was an elementary school baton twirler. I was piss poor at it, given, you know, my lack of eye-hand coordination, which did not (as it was expected) improve when I got glasses later on. I was also approximately one foot taller and several pounds heavier than all six year-olds. No, not just six year-old girls, all six year-olds. I did not blend, even whilst marching together in matching red sequin leotards. Welcome to New Jersey in the mid 80’s.

The hottest day of my whole life, ever, was a parade where I was a twirler. I just remember someone’s mom pouring water jugs on us as we walked the parade route, silver metal batons soaking up all available heat and light and burning into our little fingers.

Why wasn’t the parade cancelled due to excessive heat? Because not one parade has ever been cancelled in the history of man. Look it up.

Parades are a constant. They are exactly the same as they always were and they will continue long after we are gone. Even fascists have parades. They may replace the baton twirlers with military regiments, but it’s still a parade.

Which brings me to my next point about you, constants. Dance recitals. After being party to a recital this past May, I can say without a doubt that dance recitals have not changed in the 15-odd years since I was last in one.

Dance and I never agreed, but I solidered on. People who only know me as an adult would not expect that I fancied myself a dancer as a child. It’s all the clomping around and the dropping things that throw people off. ANYWAY.

There I was, suddenly reliving all of the tightly wound buns and embarassingly small, neon outfits. And what did I find? The same exact shit, except I was now as old as some of the mom’s in the room. Hello, depression, my old friend.

Dance recitals are the other constant because as long as their are little girls, chubby little girls and mothers on Earth, somebody is going to dance class. Dance classes = dance recitals. And they are not going to complain about dance recitals because it costs a lot to go to dance classes and goddamnit you’re going to do the recital whether or not you really think the outfit is flattering. You’re 11. Get in the car.

Jesus, even if we some day colonize Mars or have to leave the Earth and orbit in space, there will be dance recitals there, too. Intergalatic mother-daughter fights on the bridge about the bun being too tight.

You can bet on that.

This entry was posted in Hate, Love, Quarter-Life Crisis. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Dear Life’s Constants,

  1. Lydia says:

    I got so excited when this showed up in my Google Reader, today. Great letter. Thank god I never had to dance or twirl baton, because someone would have lost an eye.

  2. O. Dear says:

    Thank you, Lydia!!

    I’m so klutzy sometimes, it’s a wonder there aren’t more one-eyed girls in New Jersey. I guess I’m just lucky.

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