Exhibit B, mom on a mission

I couldn’t breathe.  Other moms from our dance school were sitting waiting for hair and makeup to start for their daughters.  I managed to whisper to my friend, Lena, that I had left my most important dance bag in the cab.  I didn’t really want to freak Curly out, but I wanted another mom to understand my impending disappearing act.  

Curly loves this junior teacher who was doing her hair, so she was busy chatting away as the layers upon layers of makeup were applied.  She wasn’t overly focused on me.

After Lena’s face went white with alarm at my ‘situation’, I dashed out in front of the hotel to see if the valet could help me.  I grabbed on to his little podium.  I was doubled over - thinking I might be sick.  ‘I . . . I left a bag in my cab.  I NEED THAT BAG!’ I hissed.

The hotel staff was well aware of the dance competition taking place at their hotel/convention center.  How could they not -what with all the girls prancing around in gaudy, sparkly dresses, donning mile-high wigs and heavy-duty fake eyelashes, and lacking the ability to stand still because they were always dancing?  There we were invading their otherwise normal atmosphere with the Irish dancing freak show.  

Now I was adding to the persona.  I cringed to think of the stories these non-dancing pedestrians would rattle off at home to loved ones and friends.  I imagine it every time I join in the not-necessarily-publicly-acceptable dance world and we (oh dear God, I am one of them) insert ourselves into an otherwise normal environment, like a hotel lobby.  I daydream about what happens when they get home after a long day in our presence.  They shake their heads a little and then they describe the scene:  ‘You should see these people!  They parade dancers around wearing hardly anything so as not to smear the spray tan they just paid out the nose for at a portable spray tan booth.  Their makeup is extreme, the wigs are laughable, and they are all so intense!’  

Knowing I would be a main character in these share-with-the-outside-world tales, I begged this alarmed valet to assist me with my quest for my bag.  

This is Curly pulling the all-important, black bag thru the Double Tree in the cover of darkness the morning before it went missing.  We were on our way to the Hilton for Mini to dance.

He tried to call the Double Tree to ask if my cab had shown up there.  That was really my only clue.  The same guy picked us up two days in a row.  I assumed the Double Tree was his hangout.  The valet asked me what the cab looked like.  I didn’t know.  How is that possible?After a few minutes he walked me inside to the front desk.  The Double Tree wasn’t answering the phone at the valet desk, maybe the hotel staff would be of more help.  

Before I draped myself across the Hilton's front desk in a puddle of emotions, I marched by Curly.  She was being transformed to look like a tramp, so the makeup part of our morning was going as planned.  I was relieved that she didn’t realize the nightmare that I had created.  

I quickly explained my issue to the woman, who probably wished she had called in sick.  Bubble over her head: ‘Enough with these credit-card-dropping, bag-losing, early-rising, crazy-ass dance moms, I want to go home and enjoy a 4th of July barbecue with my normal family.’

She tried repeatedly to call the Double Tree, but no one answered.  I couldn’t stand there any longer.  What if this cab was on its way to the Orlando airport now?  My knees were weak, but I knew what must be done.  I jotted down my cell number, for Ms. Wishing-I-was-at-a-Barbecue and told her that I was going to run back to the Double Tree.  If she heard any news, I asked her to call my cell number.  It was still dark out, so there weren’t a bunch of other customers queuing up at her desk.   

I took off running.  Full speed.  I was wearing wedge sandals and a cute dress.  No matter.  Nothing was going to stop me.  Mentally I was sharp.  Nothing like an emergency in the dance world to bring total clarity.

This is the aerial view of the path I jogged to the Mobil
 station at the highest possible speed while sporting wedges and fighting off imminent diarrhea.  

I could buy new shoes for Curly.  That would suck.  The vendors might not open until just before she was scheduled to dance though.  Not a good option.  Let’s not forget that dancers spend months breaking in their shoes.  Curly could not realistically dance in brand-spanking-new shoes.  Replacing the absent head piece and the wig fell into the same category.  What time would vendors open?  She could wear Mini’s wig that was back at the hotel.  Her own impossibly curly hair could never act as a substitute for a fake wig of fake looking curls.  Let’s not be ridiculous.  

Who goes all this way and then leaves THE essential bag in a cab?  I tried to count my blessings, like - hey, this is going to work out because I lost the bag several HOURS before Curly dances.  Thank goodness we were expected to be at the hotel for makeup and hair before 5 am.  We now have plenty of time to sort this out.  See?  Clarity.  

I sprinted down The seriously sloped circular drive of the hotel.  My arms were doing a bit of a helicopter move to keep my balance so I didn't do a face plant.  There was no traffic to be seen, so I decided to go with the most direct route.  The Hell with sidewalks and traffic lights.  I was full speed and sweating.  It was a dual sweat:  part nervous-about-to-shit-myself sweat, and part running-top-speed-in-wedges-in-Orlando-humidity-even-at-5:30 am sweat.