söndag, april 17, 2005


My fourteen year old and I connect watching Sex in the City. I sit there and flinch. She asks me what's wrong. I say, "Nothing," while thinking that except for the location, the money, the looks, the clothes, the fame and the volume of friends, the situations seem uncomfortably familiar. At some point she will say, "Carrie reminds me of you. It's freaky. Have I ever told you that?" Well, except for the legs and the breasts and the stylish hair and impeccable taste in clothing and the fame and the decade or so between us, sure. Once again the fourteen year old is my favorite.

So of course, like all other kids, afterwards, she tells me she wants to learn how to waltz. I say, "I'll show you," and try to grab her hands. She says, "You are doing it backwards." "No," I remind her. "You are left handed. It has to be done like this, except that I am not sure if I am leading or not, but this is how I remember." Within seconds we start to float about her messy teenage bedroom.

"It doesn't feel right to have that hand up. That's so sexist. It's so not fair," she complains, although absolutely delighted over how perfect the movement seemed.

"Well, not fair, maybe - but the sexist thing, naaahhhh, can't blame that one on the guys. Maybe you will have to wait and not date until you meet the perfect left-handed guy who knows how to waltz. That will keep you in the hunt for the next 16 years. Homework done?"

We just don't do enough waltzing. That's what I always say.