Dancing With Donny

Heather and Dave dropped by this week on their way to a “paid” performance of their ballroom routine.  I am trying not to live my life through my children, but in this one area I simply must give in. It gave me my “ballroom” fix for the week now that Dancing With the Stars is over for the season. For the past nine weeks, Katelyn and I would plop ourselves down on the couch each Monday night and watch as couples cha-chaed, tangoed and waltzed their way into our living room. In the final show, I was torn between who should win, Kelly “Cinderella” Osbourne or Donny “He Still Has It” Osmond. Kelly reminded me that we are all princesses deep down inside and Donny reminded me that life and sexuality do not end at fifty.  Katelyn reminded me that, “that is sooo gross.”   Dancing With The Stars is so popular because it takes people who have never danced and makes dancers out of them.  (O.K., that is a major over-simplification because obviously most of those who win were already dancers, but that is the premise.)  The reason that Donny and Marie got so many votes though, I am convinced, is because they had all the middle-aged women of America voting for them.  Maybe, they were also voting for themselves saying, “Hey, if they can do it, so can I.”  Maybe, they were voting for Marie because they were watching the pounds melt off and thinking, “Hey, if she can do it, so can I.”  Maybe, they were voting for Donny because even though he was performing those seductive moves with Kym he had his eye on his wife, Debbie. The women voting reminded themselves, “If their marriage can be vital after all these years, maybe mine can stay intact too.” Donny won this year—the year I turn 50, my teen idol has now been replaced by a man whose picture graces the cover of AARP magazine. He is still my idol, but now it is because he is such a hard worker and so polite (that Argentine Tango didn’t hurt either). But honestly, my tears flowed last week with Kelly’s partner, Louis, as they took third place. I cried, as I watched a teenage rocker who dropped the F-bomb as often as she missed a step, transform herself into My Fair Lady. I reminded myself, “Hey, never judge any book by its cover.” Besides, Kelly taught us all the magic of being a girl.              And Katelyn, honey, I know that you just can’t even picture it, but either Edward or Jacob, may someday, twenty years from now, take off their shirt on reality TV and your daughter will exclaim, “oh, sick!”

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12/4/09