Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Every Monday night I enter the studio, tie on my shoes, and take my place at the barre. My tap shoes are comfy and broken in, like that soft shirt from college that makes the best nightgown. The women around me smile and talk to one another.

I ask N. where she’s been. We haven’t seen her in a month. She grins and points to her barely protruding stomach. “Getting pregnant.” We laugh. The teacher puts on some warm-up tunes, counts it off, and we move in unison.

We come here for one hour a week, each of us dropping the concerns of the day at the door. The elderly mother we are taking care of, the cranky two-year-old, the leaky faucet, the budget that won’t balance, the project that won’t end – they aren’t allowed in here. This is our time, tapping out a rhythm across the hardwood floor, pretending to make the difficult look easy.

In 60 short minutes, we will be ejected back into the world of bills, car repairs, illness, and dirty dishes, but right now, this moment, is ours.

"On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet."
-Lord Byron