... At the ballet. Which is why John and I are hauling our tired tushes there today for a nice escape. We need to put our keppies on pause and watch the pretty people perform "Sleeping Beauty" just for us. Fine. There may be others in the audience. But we know it's all about us. A tough week calls for ballet -- modern ballet, to be exact -- even if neither of us is ballet-inclined. Sure, we both love to dance. John is all about dance -- he's a tapper, a disco God, born with rhythm in his veins. But ballet? Not so much. My first intro to dance as a little girl was ballet class. My mom's mom, aka Grammy, was always saying, "Up on your toes!" to me, urging me to be a tiny ballerina. So basically, I got guilted into it. I gave it a shot... one that lasted maybe a month, maybe two. My mom would wake me up early on a Saturday morning, and I'd give her the same look my kids used to give me when I woke them up early for anything. "Who are you, and what do you want?" My mom would hover over me, and whisper, "Wake up, you have a ballet class, honey." I was nine. I wanted to sleep. I think I liked the idea of ballet much more than the actual learning part. Ballet was too serious for the SJG. Too much pointing of toes and perfect posture and classical music I was already struggling to play on the piano. What exactly was I aiming for? Carnegie Hall? That was going to take a lot of practice. I didn't like to practice. So, adios ballet class, and within a year, piano. Too solemn, too elegant for the likes of the SJG. Hello Modern Dance, where you get to go barefoot. Hello guitar and folk songs and Joni Mitchell. Give me a head roll, give me some jazz hands, give me a couple chords and some, "Don't it always seem to go." Still my comfort zone. Still my happy place. And yet, everything is beautiful at the ballet, including a couple angsty siblings. Let the dancers stay up on their toes. We'll just sit there and watch... and not make any life-changing decisions, at least for a little while.