Ballet Dancers

Recently, I met my mom’s new neighbors. They are ballet dancers. They are gorgeous, lithe, professional dancers.

I met them while battling one of my many nasty sinus infections and coughing up mucus blobs the size of Rhode Island.

The guy’s name was Alejandro and the woman’s name was Marisa. Some of the things that rank high on my list of enviable qualities are being biracial and being bilingual. Their babies will be biracial (if they have babies) and Alejandro is bilingual.

They were beautiful humans. Easily some of the more attractive folks I’ve laid eyes on in the greater Pittsburgh area. If people could be put into a version of a dog show, they’d win. Great hair, physique, teeth. The judges would rank them high.

I am not in peak fitness…have barely patched together any sort of exercise regimen in the past few years, probably had a rogue chin hair sticking out, raw pink skin around my nose and dark undereye circles. In the imaginary human dog show scenario, a judge would encourage my owner to find a different entrant.

They are professional athletes who had Arhaus chairs delivered. They could perform the Nutcracker with their hands tied behind their backs.

I have been known to source furniture that I see set out for trash day. I have a dance style that can, at best, be described as carefree and at worst, be described as shameless blind lady with Tourette’s syndrome.

So, that’s my life.