01 April, 2004


turn and face the strange....

I was warned. I can't say I wasn't.

But still.

Our one and only (to my knowlege) review, and it's this????

Louis, you sorely test the boundaries of friendship. Tongue in cheek I understand, but to mention neither the director's name, nor the names of any of the actors, making neither reference to the brilliance of the music nor the name of the composer puts even an April Fools joke review into question.

The production company is mentioned by name. I should be grateful. The musical is mentioned by name. Ditto.

Pardon my bitterness.

Judge for yourself, here.

As a distraction....back to foolish shoes.

There is a man with a face that looks as though it ought to be attached to the name Sergei, who teaches ballet at the Center. His name turned out to be much more prosaic than his face, so I'll stick with Sergei.

He speaks to me:

"Those are real ankle breakers."




"Your shoes. They look like they could make you break an ankle."


"Had a broken ankle, and it wasn't because of shoes. The shoes are proof that I'm better."

This Sergei, he always speaks to me. I can't tell if he's flirting or not.

(I've had a man apologize for making a pass I didn't notice he'd made. Silly me.)

Whether he is or not, it's nice to imagine that he might be.


M., my "date" for That Girl's birthday party, is in the same situation I am, long term marriage, two small kids, driving something sensible. He bemoans his middle age. "It suddenly started to BOTHER me," he says, surprised at himself.

Yes. When no one looks at you with hot eyes, even your spouse, as if they'd like to consume you, it eats away at your image of yourself as sleek and smooth and desirable. It's acid, chewing your psyche into a pockmarked, scorched desert.

So to imagine that the Ballet Sergei is...okay, MIGHT BE... flirting with me is fun. Because taking it a bit further, imagining the possibilities of having sex with a dancer is even more fun.

It was a long walk, but one I'm willing to take.

In my foolish shoes.

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