A Shimmery Gold Leotard Wouldn't Look Good On Me Anyway

At one point in my life, I wanted to be a Solid Gold dancer. I was around eleven or twelve at the time. This aspiration lasted all of about a half hour, which was the length of the TV show featuring a small cluster of scantily clad dancers who wiggled and hopped, in unison, to the top ten songs of the week. One half hour, once a week, on Saturday night. 

Thirty odd years later, standing in my living room with a Wii remote in hand, as my daughter selected song after song on her Just Dance video game for me to dance along to, it became clear why I never followed through on that particular dream - I can’t dance. Whereas the dancers on the TV moved in fluid motion, I moved like an old, dry stick that crudely snapped and cracked into place, and never once showed signs of bending. 

I come from a part of the country where the vast majority would define dancing as: the act of stomping one's feet on the dance floor, with slight wiggling, while arms are held bent to the side. If anyone does break into any sort of real dance motion, they are looked at with a curled lip and a heap load of scrutiny. But, for hours on Christmas Day, my hands, arms, legs and feet moved in directions they rarely venture in otherwise. At times I was directed onto the floor, then back up again (which I did with a groan). All the while, my daughter kept instructing, “Don’t forget to move your feet mom!” I didn’t forget to move anything. What little sliding and bouncing my feet were doing, was about all I could do and continue to keep up with the dancer on the screen in front of me. Regardless of how I looked, and the outcry coming from my muscles and joints, I danced every song my daughter chose for me. I was my daughter’s dance partner for the evening. She was thrilled, I was thrilled.

Previously, I’ve never been one for Christmas. It’s never held the magic I’ve seen portrayed in the movies. I’ve never had a spouse or boyfriend or admirer do anything special for me on Christmas. My dad hated Christmas (yes, I said hate). And after owning a FedEx delivery business for eight years, I can attest to the fact that Christmas is not a jolly time of the year for those in the delivery business. 

This year, however, it seems a bit of magic rolled my way. In addition to watching the happiness spread across my children's faces, this was the first Christmas in twenty years wherein I woke on Christmas morning owning my own name. On the 22nd of December the Judge signed my divorce papers, I am once again Samantha Hoffman, and the ugliness of a 2 1/2 year long divorce is finally behind me. It seems, some dreams do come true. I hope your dream, large or small, landed at your feet in all of its fully exposed glory this Christmas, or at the very least, that your dream peaked at you; letting you know its out there, making its way toward you. 

Merry Christmas

Sane