My Flying Pig Moment

Have you ever had a flying pig moment? I have. Let me tell you about it.

Image Credit: http://paxonbothhouses.blogspot.com/

Image Credit: http://paxonbothhouses.blogspot.com/

First off, if you think all it takes to be a successful ballroom dancer is executing syllabus figures; if you think it’s all about impeccable technique, style, grace, poise, posture and practice, practice, practice, think again. Sure training is vital, but I’m going to let you in on a secret: there’s a whole lot more to this ballroom business than meets the eye. You think we dance divas are born bedazzled?

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Life is Too Short for Bad Attitudes

13879I recently competed in my second ballroom dance event, the Michigan Dance Challenge. It was a big event with over 7000 entries and I am exhausted. You might think I’m exhausted from dancing something like a fillion-dillion cha-chas, rumbas, east coast swings, boleros and mambos, but you’d be wrong. Swollen feet and painful hip joints notwithstanding, all that dancing was invigorating. The exhausting part was allowing

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When More Is More

You’ve heard the saying “less is more?” It applies to many things including wasabe, Barbara Streisand, men’s cologne, government and it definitely applies to makeup. I rarely wear make-up, but when I do, I don’t wear much. That’s not to suggest I’m one of those don’t-hate-me-because-I’m-beautiful specimens who doesn’t need makeup and women universally hate. It’s just that my philosophy regarding makeup falls into the category

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Kicking and Screaming

For those of you assuming I drag my poor husband, kicking and screaming, to the dance studio, think again. He likes to dance as much as I do. In fact, our very first date back in 1982 was an eight-hour dance marathon. Apparently he fancied himself a pretty good dancer back then and figured he could impress me with his snappy moves. He was right. We went all the way that night… as in WE DANCED THE ENTIRE 8 HOURS WITHOUT

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Chasing My Own Mirror Ball

After making a career of finding whatever job paid the most while supporting my husband through medical school, I gave birth to our first son. Seven cities, three states, a second son, too many tropical fish to count and a dog later, I found myself, on one very dismal February morning, standing catatonically on the back porch of my suburban Atlanta home. A gentle breeze stirred the air and the sound of a fluttering plastic grocery bag, stuck in the branches of a leafless dogwood, caught my attention. That's me, I suddenly thought, a hollow, empty version of the me I used to be...

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