One of my biggest vices is watching television shows and movies that center around dance. I'm a sucker for scenarios that involve:
a) inner city kids that think their problems will disappear if they raise enough money to enter the underground dance-off in an abandoned warehouse
b) juvenile delinquents that have to enroll in their school's dance program as retribution for their deviant acts
c) girls that hide their passion for dance because they're buried under mounds of guilt because their mothers died en route to their Julliard auditions.
Most recently, this obsession has taken the form of the reality show So You Think You Can Dance. My sister and I wait patiently for months until our cable TV station decides to grace us with a new season of this masterpiece. The poor, misguided souls trying out to be "America's favorite dancer" go through grueling auditions and call backs and if they're lucky enough, get to perform choreographed dances in front of a live, studio audience.
Every night the show is on, our house is silent, save for our parents' sighs (and eye-rolls, if eye rolling was audible). At the end of the hour, with my adrenaline pumping, I find myself trying out dance moves I've seen on the show in the mirror. I've been told, and feel myself, that I'm a pretty good dancer, but my attempts are usually met with little success, and looks of disgust by my sister. Maybe if I had more space to really bust a move I'd look like less of a dork? Probably not.
In any case, I've only tried out the hip-hop and crumping moves. Maybe if I try to get the Little One to reenact the Viennese Waltz with me, she'll change her mind and see me for the brilliant dancer that I am.