Dancing the Years Away

Two years ago I took L to her first Daddy/Daughter Dance at the YMCA.  Last year we went again.  If it takes three times to make something a tradition, we hit the mark on Saturday night.  Every year my date has gotten bigger, and, sad to say, not particularly more graceful.  Each year finds her struggling to figure out exactly how to negotiate all the extra inches that have accumulated on her ever stretching frame, and she's growing far faster than her spacial awareness.  Her idea of dancing hasn't evolved much.  It is still pretty much encompassed by spinning under my arm at RPMs not justified by any tempo of any of the music being played, and there are still way too many elbows and feet being flung out in random and potentially blunt-force trauma-inducing directions.  But her heart is in it and she drags her weary father to the floor dance after dance with a savage and unrelenting, if somewhat unfocused passion.  I, on the other hand, who have also accumulated a few more inches over the years, have little to offer in the grace and dexterity department; my hopes and confidence in L's future femme fetal blossoming lies entirely in the 50% of the gene pool contributed by her Mother - we're praying for strong maternal chromosomes!

The dance lasted from 6:00 to 8:00. My cyclone in white chiffon never flagged, but my energy waned thirty minutes in.  While the first hour ticked off at an acceptable pace, the 7-8 stretch seemed to do just that.  I would glance over to the clock in between dodges of under-arm pirouettes and find that the minute hand was stubbornly refusing to get on with things.  "Ahhh! - but these are the moments I'll treasure," I told myself.  "I'll look back fondly on these brief snippets of time and get all misty-eyed and maudlin," I reminded myself.  But I would always hear myself answering back:  "Then lets get this over with so I can start the reminiscing!"

And I was right.  Now, two days on, I'm sitting here thinking how my little girl is all grown up.  The cramps in my sore back are easing up, so I'm much more inclined to look back fondly on the evening and regret my hasty attitude.  Feet which no longer shoot waves up pain up my leg want to grab the girl and waltz the night away.  Some day.  Probably next year.  Or the year after that.  Or in a couple - when she's finally all grace and beauty in her white chiffon and I dance my last dance with her before handing her over to some other Neanderthal in a tux.