February 19: Very Very Obvious, Open House, Dance Moments

Arthur Dent is waking up on the Vogon flagship, and Ford Prefect is contemplating one of his pet peeves . . .

"Whhrrr . . ." said Arthur Dent.  He opened his eyes.  "It's dark," he said.

"Yes," said Ford Prefect, "it's dark."

"No light," said Arthur Dent.  "Dark, no light."

One of the things Ford Prefect had always found hardest to understand about humans was their habit of continually stating and repeating the very very obvious, as in It's a nice day, or You're very tall, or Oh dear you seem to have fallen down a thirty-foot well, are you all right?  At first Ford had formed a theory to account for this strange behavior.  If human beings don't keep exercising their lips, he thought, their mouths probably seize up.  After a few months' consideration and observation he abandoned this theory in favor of a new one.  If they don't keep on exercising their lips, he thought, their brains start working.  After a while he abandoned this one as well as being obstructively cynical and decided he quite liked human beings after all, but he always remained desperately worried about the terrible number of things they didn't know about.

So, tonight was my daughter's very last open house at her dance studio.  She's a senior.  I realized this fact as I was leaving the studio after watching her dance.  Allow me, therefore, to repeat something that's probably very obvious:  tonight was my daughter's last open house at her dance studio, and that makes me profoundly sad.

I have been attending dance open houses for my daughter since she was in kindergarten.  That's twelve years, if you're counting.  I remember her first open house.  She was one little girl in a room filled with little girls, and she was trying her hardest to look like a ballerina.  She pointed her toes.  Did pliés.  Ran and tried to leap.  She was so serious.  So focused.

Tonight, she looked beautiful, if a little tired.  She came straight from school, so she had no chance to relax.  After I watched her tap class, I took her to dinner, and we sat and talked and laughed like we always did when I would drive her to dance.  When she was little, I would take her to McDonald's and buy her chicken nuggets, and she would tell me about art class or computer class or gym class.  We would discuss what her Halloween costume was going to be.  What she wanted most for her birthday or Christmas.  

Tonight, she kept looking at her iPhone, tapping out quick messages to her friends.  She told me that I should grow a beard, and when I said that a beard would make me look old, she said, "Well, you are old!"  Then she laughed, and I laughed.  As we were leaving the restaurant, she actually took my hand in hers for about ten seconds.

I'm going to miss those dance moments, where she forgets that she's 18-years-old and, for a few moments, is my little girl again.

Saint Marty is old tonight.