SINK-ing

I was talking the other day to a friend of mine. Those of you who have been around a while will remember Friend-Since-I-Was-In-My-Mummy's-Tummy.  The conversation started because I shared a picture of something shiny and new that had shown up in the mail that day.

Last December, on the twenty-eighth, to be exact, I did something extremely indulgent. I ordered myself a pair of Miller and Ben Triple Threat tap shoes in custom colors. Did I need them? No, not really. My regular tap shoes--which are already rather pricey--are just fine, and I have two pairs of them. The first pair is decently worn in, and the second is my performance pair, so they're newer and cleaner. No, I definitely didn't need new tap shoes. The thing was, though, that my pal P.V. (you remember her) has blown through* two pairs of custom shoes at this point, and I have been quietly seething with jealousy the whole time. You see, standard tap shoes don't come in a wide array of colors. Black, tan, sometimes white. Occasionally some sort of novelty color, but usually in collaboration with some artist or other company. For the most part, this is perfectly practical. I like practical.

Most of the time.

This was not one of those times. This was one of those times where I decided to hell with practicality, I want something pretty, and by god I'm going to get it! So I did. For the record, the Miller and Ben company has been in business for 30+ years for several very good reasons. Quality product, the ability to customize more than just the colors, and top notch customer service. I knew they were a safe bet. I ended up working directly with one of the owners (Mr. Ofer Ben, an absolute delight of a human being) on my shoes. It took us a while to get things nailed down because we were having to size me without the ability to actually try anything on, but we did it, and the order was finalized, and then started the wait.

Three months is a long time when you're excited about something.

But they passed, as I knew they would, and finally my schmancy shoes were in my hot little hands and I may or may not have spent the rest of the day doing a very silly happy wiggle every time I so much as looked at the box they came in. And, of course, I had to tell everybody and their mother that they had arrived.

You know, like baby pictures. Except instead of a baby it's tap shoes.

And that brings me back to my conversation with FSIWIMMT. She and her husband are my teammates on #TeamNoKids. She is also a tapper, so she understands the desire for fancy shoes. I mentioned how much they set me back, and she reminded me that it's not like we're saving up for kids to go to college. She and her husband love being DINKs. (Double Income, No Kids)

I pointed out that by that logic I was a SINK.

She pointed out that the most important part was the -INK. Because "that's how we get fancy tap shoes."

She's not wrong.

 And they are BEAUTIFUL.

*P.V. teaches 30 classes/rehearsals/private tap lessons a week. She's hard on her shoes.

I don't know how to process this.

So I was subbing again at the Thursday Studio last Saturday.

Something happened.

I can't seem to process it. I think part of the reason is my subconscious trying to protect me and sort of refusing to let me access anything even marginally related. The other part of the reason is, of course, that it's hard. It does seem to be getting easier to feel something when I think about it the further away from it I get, but I've still got a long way to go before I can poke it with a stick and have it be productive in any way.

Yes, I know I'm being vague. There are Reasons for that. It's not just myself I'm protecting.

Oh. Hello. That's...that's a feeling. Nice of it to finally show up.

I think I'm going to be sick.

"Some beans."

The other day, I had occasion to marvel at the fact that some people manage to sail through life without any critical thinking skills whatsoever.

And by 'marvel', I mean 'despair'.

If you want to add an amount to another amount, and make sure that the original amount has increased by the added amount, you'd just sort of...add them up, wouldn't you? Seems fairly straightforward to me.

And yes, okay, this was a tax withholding amount on a paycheck, and taxes are complicated, but 'how do I tell if this dude's withholding has increased by the additional amount he had us enter' isn't rocket science. It's not even calculus. It's far more in line with "Timmy has two apples, and Amanda gives him two more apples. How many apples does Timmy have now?" There was even a rather prolonged history of previous tax amounts withheld to which this person could have added the new number to see what the increased total would be--approximately, but that's good enough. 

If I wasn't already convinced that humanity is hurtling headlong toward its own demise, this would have strengthened the case considerably.

It just baffles me. It really does. There are actually people on this planet who are that helpless. There are people on this planet who are more helpless in terms of finding solutions from the tools available to them. Has elementary school become nothing but rote memorization and regurgitation? (Actually, that's probably not too far off, judging by what I know of friends' kids' schoolwork.) Are we destined for a future full of grown-ass adults who can't put their underpants on without a set of easy to follow instructions?

I have a surprising amount of patience and a natural ability to make people understand things, and I'm more than happy to get someone pointed in the right direction and even do a little hand-holding beyond that if it's necessary. But if you can't apply basic logic to what is essentially a third grade math problem, I don't know what to tell you.

Well, I have some ideas, but none of them are particularly polite.

Summary: People can't add and I can't deal. Here's the funny version of this situation courtesy of Rowan Atkinson in the second season of Blackadder: "Some beans."

Hoo-ray.

I just had the most entertaining experience.

I had a 5-9 PM delivery window on my groceries. 9:30 rolled around, and...no groceries. So I called the customer service number to say, "Um...so...where my apples at, yo?"

And the dude.

Who answered the call.

Was a dead ringer for Droopy Dog.

Does anyone else remember Droopy Dog? The basset hound who had shorts in the old Tom and Jerry hours. The character was created by Tex Avery and was originally voiced by Bill Thompson, who you may remember as the voice of the White Rabbit in Disney's 1951 Alice in Wonderland, or possibly as the world-weary park ranger from that old favorite, In The Bag. 

::sings:: Pick the paper up, put it in the bag, bump-bump...

His voice was just slightly more like Droopy than those other characters, though, which was delightful. I could just imagine Grocery Delivery Customer Service Dude sitting in his cubicle after completing a call, saying, "You know what? That caller said they'd take the survey. Hoo-ray," and waving a tiny flag. I have no idea if he was doing it on purpose or not--not that I'd blame him one bit if he was, you've got to liven that sort of job up somehow--but it really made my evening. 

And let's face it, when your groceries don't arrive on time, the least the people whose fault it is can do is provide you with some entertainment while you reschedule your delivery. Hoo-ray. ::waves tiny flag::

A little jaunt

Last weekend the Thursday Studio kids had their first dance competition of the season.

What did that mean for me?

Staying behind to hold down the fort, that's what. Someone had to. There were classes that needed to be taught, and taught they were. Jazz for the five-to-sevens, followed directly by tap for the five-to-sevens, and if you'll remember from the last time I taught just one of those classes, the immediate aftermath is extreme exhaustion. I was prepared for it. My original plan was to go straight home and flop onto the sofa for a quick snooze before queueing up the competition livestream so I could support the kiddos from afar. It was a solid plan. I was looking forward to it.

Then Friday night happened, and one of the ballet teachers who is also my buddy (we'll call her "A.") sent me a text. "Yay! You are teaching! Are you going to San Jose? Do you want to ride with me?" How can one say no to such enthusiasm? And that, kids, is how I found myself riding shotgun to a dance competition after closing the studio up for the afternoon.

A reminder: I was not a competition dancer growing up. I was very much a pink-tights-only, snooty-snooty, absolutely nothing so gauche as all that gratuitous gyrating, I-am-an-artiste-thank-you-very-much ballet snob. This experience was a first. Because of Covid, the competition organizers had offered block scheduling, and our studio had the 1pm-3pm slot. A. and I rolled in right at one, missing nothing, because they were about ten minutes behind schedule. We weren't about to complain because it worked in our favor.

We popped backstage to let everyone know we were there, then settled in in the audience. It being the first competition of the season, we were prepared for the possibility of nerves getting the best of some of the kiddos, but apart from a few minor fumbles they did phenomenally well. Fourteen numbers out of thirty-nine entered placed in the top tens in their respective divisions. That's 36%. I did the math, because I'm a nerd. 

At the end of the day, my only real complaint was the volume, which was excessive for the size of the room and the number of sound-absorbing bodies in it, but no one listens to me about that kind of thing, so. Get off my lawn?

It was a pleasant day, all told. The studio director was pleased to have her classes taken care of, the kids who knew me were surprised and happy to see me, and A. and I got some quality time in the car. Oh, and I got to sport my schmancy new studio jacket, complete with hand-embroidered initial with rhinestone accents. So, you know, good time.