Done, done, done. Dancing in the recital was fun, looking at the pictures after was difficult. Fat and hypercritical, bad combination. This is a picture of me and the ensemble in the mumu gulf state rich fat chick dress with great hair and nails dance. I wish my intellect and self-image were meshed. Mouthing off middle-age defiance about youth culture, and shaking boobs and jelly bellies is a great release in the present tense. The evidence is wrenching, to me. "you're as young as you feel" makes me "feel" like I'm living an arthritis commercial. I feel seventeen, but I look like what I am. Big disconnect. So what was good about it... my friends came out on a school night and sat in uncomfortable chairs in a very warm room, hooted and whistled, and I loved them for doing that. I danced with some wonderful wonderful wonderful women. Who all looked beautiful and lush to me. Not an intellectual or aesthetic beauty, but a juicy life-giving and breathing sumptuousness. Seeing the age and body type spectrum of women all dancing together was happiness. I loved being hot and sweaty, and going outside onto the Danforth in my bare feet to cool down, occasionally catching the eye of some guy from the hood stunned by the vision of all these half-dressed women out on the pavement on a cool September evening. Forget what it looks like, it felt good to do it.