not dance-mom material

As I approached the corner, I saw a white minivan about to pull out of the gas station. Something clicked - thankfully, it wasn’t my ankle.  The almost audible clicking noise was my brain.  I was just beginning to recover from the holy Hell of a headache I had the night before all this fun began.  My cab driver drove a white minivan.   Yes!  I remembered it now.  The interior was black, which is why my black bag remained camouflaged when I hopped out.  My half asleep brain had nothing to do with it.

I got to the van just before he pulled into the intersection.  I needed to get his attention, so I slammed my hands onto his hood from the passenger side where I was approaching.  The driver just about jumped out of his skin.  At first I thought I recognized him, but his startled expression threw me off.  

Was he looking at me like he had never seen me before, or was it a look like he WISHED he had never seen me before?  I tried to catch my breath as I staggered in front of his car on my wobbly legs and around to the driver side.  He rolled down his window and looked at me wide eyed.  I am guessing that this is implied, but folks - I looked like Hell.  

‘My bag.  Is.  Still in your car.  I need.  My bag!’  (The periods here denote where I took long wheezing breaths.)  While I wheezed, I took no chances.  I refused to stand on ceremony.  I crossed the cab driver/ dance-mom passenger boundary and stuck my head thru his not-completely opened window definitely infringing on his personal space.  

I wept at the sight of my perky, little, well-worn, refused-to-glide-in-a-straight-line-on-its-wheels, knock-off-of-a-real-wheeled-bag, gift-from-my-sister, black bag.

This is my black bag that I was
so desperate to get back. 
These are my fingers sticking
out of the holes.  The holes are
 here because the bag isn't really
 made properly.  This side where the
wheels are occasionally drags on
the ground.  Oh, it may be ugly
 - BUT I STILL NEEDED
 THIS SORRY ASS BAG!

Mr. Driver was so shocked that my bag was still in his car that he gasped loudly.  He slapped  his head with the palm of his hand and jumped quickly out of the car.  

What happened next can only be described as the Ernie-effect.  The man was having a fine, ordinary day until I came along.  In his haste to get this hysterical, sweaty, mess of a woman out of his life, he jumped out of the van to open the back door.  Unfortunately, he failed to put the van in park.  

The van began to roll into the street.  Again, may I reiterate how relieved I am that this was all happening before 5:30 am.  No traffic.  And under the cover of darkness- like a covert operation.  He deftly took three giant steps before popping back into the driver’s seat where he immediately hit the breaks and put the van in park.

I apologized profusely for my train-wreck self.  I would have blamed myself if his minivan had hit something while he was trying to extract my bag from the back seat.  He insisted on driving me back (less than 100 yards) to the hotel.  I tried to shake my head and refuse his offer wanting instead to let this man go on with his life.  

He did drive me up to the hotel.  I did reappear in the lobby just in time for Curly, who was clueless about her Mom’s adventure, to get her ridiculous wig attached.   

See the moms in the background.  I assure
 you they have their shit together. 
And this is my daughter - now
unidentifiable to me with the heavy
 eye makeup in place.

While they worked on her wig, I approached Ms. I-Wish-I-Was-at-a-Barbecue.  ‘Got my bag back,’ I assured her as I tried to pretend that my hair wasn’t dripping in sweat (not unlike Kristin Wiig in ‘Bridesmaids’ when she tries to pretend she doesn't have food poisoning).  Now about my credit card that is currently in your vault.’
    

People, exhibit B clearly tells the tale of how much I need my sleep and how badly Irish dancing can impact my apparently very sensitive nervous system/ diminished brain cell capacity.  I hate it when Eddie calls me 'Dance-mom' and honestly, I think this story illustrates how I am nothing like a true dance-mom.

The authentic dance-mom breed is perky at 4:30 am, she carries a Starbucks cup (I don't drink coffee) and she NEVER questions crazy-ass time slots for hair and makeup.  I suspect that she likes the smell of sock glue, and she is capable of having full conversations without choking on the bobby pins that dangle from the side of her mouth.  She embraces this shit.  Nothing rattles her.  She clusters around chirping with other true dance-moms about the upcoming competition while I count the hours until the mayhem might be over and my visits to the bathroom might become more predictable.  The lot of them roll pricey Zuca bags as if they are an extension of their God given appendages - they would NEVER abandon said bags in the back of a cab.

Thinking of enrolling your kid in an Irish dancing class?  Don’t say this non-dance mom didn’t warn you.