It took a hurricane, but I finally got Catherine to willingly accompany me to the Jazzercise Center of Southwestern Connecticut, where I teach a couple times a week.
Given the choice between a dark, cold house and watching Mom in all her embarrassing glory, the choice was clear — as long as she could rely on her laptop and headphones to block it all out. So last Thursday, our third day without power, she packed her stuff and sat in the back room while I taught class.
I was so excited! She was here — for the first time since she was 7 or 8 (she’s 16 now) and would sit on the sidelines while I took class and try to decipher the mysteries of the shimmy (she’s got it figured out now!).
She’d never seen me teach, and I was sure she’d be so proud of me!
I was hoping she might dance with us, or at least watch, but except for one peek around the corner to shoot me some stink eye when I told the class that she was hiding in the back, she stayed glued to the computer.
I admit I goaded her with taunts — “Look, Catherine: A whole room of people who do what I tell them.”
The class got a kick out of that, but she didn’t bite. During the last routine, she made a mouse-like crawl out to the corner of the dance floor, and after everyone left, she tried to play with my mic.
“You made me sound like an anti-social hobbit,” she said on the way home, then demanded to know: “Do you ALWAYS talk about me?!”
“Well, no,” I assured her.
“Sometimes I talk about your father.”