It’s May 12, 2019, and I’m writing this blog post for my mom.
I’m reasonably sure she doesn’t read or even know about my blog.
But it’s Mother’s Day, and I’m missing her. Badly.
So please stick with me on this blog post?
A close friend of mine invited me to Philadelphia to watch her compete in an Amateur Ballroom Dance Competition called the Philadelphia Dancesport Championships.
Now let me be clear. I know ZERO about Ballroom dancing, so whatever I blog here is from a know-nothing perspective.
And if you bear with me, you will see how I managed to intermingle her dance competition with Mother’s Day.
My friend is an amateur, but extremely talented ballroom dancer, who partners with a masterful professional.
As a fan of “Dancing with the Stars,” I was super excited to finally see Bo dance.
First, it was off to New Jersey for a two-hour lesson and practice, followed by picking up the mother of all sequined dresses.
I’m pretty sure the dress weighed more than Bo!
Then we spent a quiet evening at the Westin Hotel in Philly.
And the next day, while Bo prepared for her competition, I went to the ballroom to familiarize myself with the dancing lowdown.
There were numbers on every table, so of course, I quickly grabbed a seat at my lucky numero 18.
The table was set up with battery-operated fans, bottled water, lots of tissue boxes and neatly folded perspiration cloths.
There were at least seven judges, heads bent low to their table, busily writing stuff down.
Professional photographers were snapping photos and videographers were busy filming the competing couples.
Watching the contestants compete, I couldn’t help but wonder if they had day jobs.
I imagined, for example, that the hot tamale in the senior novice division doing the Cha-Cha in an ever-so skin-tight green dress, was an accountant by day.
“Number 476—the Cha-Cha, let’s hear it for the contestants.”
There was the Rumba, the Swing, and the Mambo.
I was mesmerized by the abundance of illusion, glitter, sequins, feathers, and spray tan. And those splits! Oh my.
And every time a dance duo would glide by me, they would smile and gaze adoringly at me.
I was patting myself on the back that my slit wide-leg pants, glitter top, globs of face makeup, eye shadow and mascara had paid off…until I realized that there was a ginormous mirror behind me.
While the contestants were throwing back all brands and sizes of bottled water, I was happily throwing back a Chardonnay.
Two of the male dancers at my table were in deep discussion about hair gel, while I was mesmerized by one particular male dancer on the floor.
Not only did he have impressive dance moves (not that I would know), he had swag.
Mr. Swag competed with more than twenty different female partners, and he danced them to winning status every time.
Which got me to thinking: Does he live near me?
A thought balloon hovered over my head: The Terster in a tight green dress…okay maybe not so tight, because of, you know, the belly roll…
But there is the Terster—floating around the dance floor with Mr. Russian Swag Guy. And the winner is!!!!!!!
Okay, I was having a blast, but you know Teri.
She can always pull something out of the past to put a damper on any old day.
And this is where Mother’s Day comes in.
Because back in the day, my mom was an Arthur Murray dance instructor, so a lot of the songs and dances reminded me of how she would sing and dance around the kitchen on Huron Street with a phantom partner.
Once in a while, she would grab my hand, and we would float around as best we could in the cramped spaces between the table and chairs and the fridge.
Well, my mom floated, I clomped.
The flashback of the two us—with my mom so carefree and happy.
Back then, if she was happy, then so was I.
And of course, my grandmother would be sitting at the table, smiling, but covering her mouth, lest we would see her loose-fitting dentures moving around.
Maybe I looked forlorn, perhaps a little distracted. I can’t say why, but the young woman sitting next to me placed her hand on my arm. “Are you okay? Are you watching someone out there?”
I was a little choked up, so I merely shook my head no.
I pulled out a tissue from one of the several boxes on the table to catch the tears in the corners of my eyes.
Leave it to me to take a perfectly enjoyable dance competition and make a weepfest out of it.
A couple of minutes later when I had my emotions in check, I told the young woman about my mom and Arthur Murray. Well not Arthur per se, but you know what I mean.
She had bleached blonde spiky hair, a nose ring, and a mohawk motorcycle helmet. Not exactly ballroom material.
She told me that her mom was a senior novice. “The vision in lavender,” she said, as she proudly pointed her out. I answered that my favorite color was lavender.
And then she told me everything I needed to know (or not) about ballroom dance competitions, her passion for motorcycles, and how her mom got her mojo back through competitive dancing.
In between dances, contestants would come to the table and fan themselves, yank out a handful of tissues, and gently blot the sweat off their faces.
Then there came a series of songs that just stabbed at my heart:
♪ Sunrise, sunset, Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly fly the years
One season following another
Laden with happiness and tears ♪
I grabbed for a tissue and ordered another glass of wine.
♪ A time for us, someday there’ll be
A new world, a world of shining hope for you and me ♪
I mean seriously? These songs were hardly conducive for a happy Teri outcome.
I grabbed a few more tissue, said a quick goodbye to my punky friend who was busy videoing her mom and bolted out of the ballroom before dark Teri reared her ugly head.
Plus, it was almost showtime for Bo!
A flurry of stretching, hair, makeup and then the donning of her elegant sun-yellow gown.
Bo’s dancing was superb. She was a vision in yellow—a beautiful ray of sunshine. Bo and her partner danced with elegance and spot-on precision. I was so proud of her.
She breezed through the Waltz, Viennese Waltz, Fox Trot, Quickstep, and the Tango, and took first place in all of her heats.
Her last dance was the Fox Trot. The song was Fly Me to the Moon.
Thank God for those tissues.
How many times had I adoringly watched my mom float around our dumpy kitchen on Huron Street while singing that tune?
A lifetime ago.
What I wouldn’t give to have one more chance at one more dance.
Happy Mother’s Day, mom.