I’m not really kidding. This year, Saturday morning class has been joined by Wednesday afternoon class (this time with my mom, who runs the studio — how could I resist?) and if she gets a part in the Snow Queen (a Nutcracker alternative run, again, out of my mom’s studio) it’ll be Sunday afternoon rehearsals, too, all fall.

The temple we’d join is quite relaxed, but requires third graders attend school on Sunday mornings and Wednesday afternoons. Too much.

That’s okay.

As I write this, Dirty Dancing is on TV in the background. Patrick Swayze (RIP) never really did it for me, but boy, did I (do I) love him in that movie. And Jennifer Grey, even if she did eventually cave and get the nose job.

I’m thinking of playing hooky from work Friday morning, after Sophie’s IEP meeting (it’s finally been scheduled) to see Fame, though I’m quite concerned the remake will ruin a truly perfect original.

For me, the dance parties are pretty much limited to my kitchen, unless there’s a great deal of alcohol involved. That’s okay. In my imagination, I make it into the Fame school. Johnny and I do the mambo — perfectly.

That’s not to say either of my girls are destined for the stage. That’s okay, too, because it’s the pure joy that dance brings to both of them — that’ I’ve always seen it bring to my mom — that brings me to my knees.