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When the Clock Strikes Twelve

No matter how whimsical the dance event, at some point, the clock strikes twelve. The carriage reverts to the pumpkin and we watch the mice scurry away. All that reality that surrounded us before is still there. In the little house where I live, the washer and dryer are in the garage. So, the first thought that hits me upon returning home is  how far behind I am with the laundry. Then, I walk through the kitchen and see the dirty dishes. I walk past my school bag and look at the papers that I should have been grading. As I step out of my heels, my mental calculations conclude that I would have accomplished these tasks if I had stayed home.

Again and I again, I make the choice to pursue the dance. I admit to myself that I need the escape. I know that the fantasy of the dance will end but the relaxation and emotional benefits will help carry me through the reality that awaits me. I can admit that I need the joy of a beautiful waltz with my husband, the camaraderie with my friends, and the healing powers of good music.

So, as the beautiful dress is returned to the closet and I throw a load in the wash, I sigh with content When the Clock Strikes Twelve.

See You on the Floor!

 

 

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2 responses »

  1. The end of the week is never ‘right’ without an evening of dance on either Friday or Saturday–preferably both. To have the moments when all the stars align and the rumba works perfectly with my husband–or remarkably I was able to follow all the steps led by an instructor.

    Yes, reality awaits us. But it is so much easier to live/face after dancing with smiles for husband, friends, and instructors. I believe we walk in the same ‘heels’!

    Reply

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