You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Dancing with the Stars.
It’s a fine television program.
It routinely wins its time slot.
the target demo is women 30 -50.
So why am I watching?
I am so NOT the target demo.
I am older than the target audience.
I have bigger biceps than the target demo.
I look terrible in a bikini.
yet here I am watching.
“Hand in your damn man card,” my friend told me the other day.
“Hand in my man card?”
“You don’t deserve it,” he said laughing.
“You are right.”
“Damn straight. Isn’t there a boxing match you can turn on?”
“I don’t know. I am so confused.”
Ha ha ha.
and so it goes.
Dancing with the Stars.
It’s a 2 hour debacle of tights and glitter and show tunes.
And I’m watching.
Ha.
I am laughing at myself.
Maybe I should drop down to the floor and do some push ups.
That’s manly, right?
Not only is it DWTS; but it’s DWTS Disney Night.
Oh joy.
and i’m watching.
Forgive me Lord for I have…
Well I haven’t sinned.
But I have trespassed against myself.
I just took a curiously long walk through my own self exploration.
What I suddenly see is pronounced, vivid, like the scene when Dorothy opens the door and sees the yellow brick road for the 1st time.
OK, so what.
So I’m watching DWTS.
The chicks are hot as hell. How about that for affirmation of manhood, bitches?
Watching DWTS?
It’s just incongruous with the guy I see shaving in the mirror.
That guy likes sportscenter and HBO hard knocks.
Suddenly I feel like I should be wearing a Winnie the Pooh thong.
“Is that the quick step?”
Oh my God.
Did I just say that?
Why do I even know that term.
Did I just say that out loud?
So here I am, wondering whose going home.
At this particular embarrassing moment, Kim and Sasha are dancing to a song from the Jungle Book.
She’s dressed like Livingston I presume?
She is bigger than a tent, but she is moving with aplomb.
She has light feet for a woman in a skirt brighter than a neon banana.
The duo finish and the judges are effusive.
It’s verbiage sprinkled with confectioners sugar and pink glitter.
“That was zippity doo dah on the foot work,” the old cantankerous man in the middle spouts in his decidedly British accent.
“The steps looked clean to me,” the guest judge says.
“You are sparkling, sizzling, you have jungle fever,” Bruno the effervescent judge spews.
The host stares at him as if he has been soiled with a water cannon filled with bacteria.
Yes I’m watching.
I could be watching ESPN.
I should be watching ESPN.
I could put on FX and watch another episode of the Fast and Furious.
There’s enough adrenaline and testosterone in that film to bring me back from this feminine funk.
Yet here I am watching Ginger Zee dancing to Beauty and the beast.
“Look how she’s moving her feet?” I say with a swish in my derriere.
“Look how she’s holding onto her partner, in syncopation.”
My analysis is sadly on target.
They are going to get 9’s I proclaim.
And 9’s they get.
“I knew it.”
Oh my God.
I predict the score and I’m proud.
Someone get me a shot of Wild Turkey and can of Motor Oil.
“Has anyone seen my man card?”
Nope.
It’s lost on the refuse pile of ambiguity.
Here I am watching Dancing with the Stars Disney Night.
He’s dancing a samba. That’s an Oscar nominated song from the Lion King.
I know too much.
I feel like calling 911 and having myself arrested.
“Hello 911. I want to report a fall from grace, a break from masculinity, a stumble along the path of heterosexual ferociousness.”
“OK, sir, we’ll send someone out right away.”
“hurry. Please. Hurry.”
I am feeling dainty.
I am feeling fresh as a daisy.
Somewhere inside of all this tough guy exterior I’m getting my feminine groove on.
I don’t like wine, yet I am craving a glass of white wine.
I am wearing jesus sandals but somehow wonder how i’d look in high heels.
I want to quantify the colors of the rainbow using words like Chartreuse, mauve, coral and lemon lime slurpee.
Somewhere Clint Eastwood is screaming at me to get off his damn lawn.
I only tell you that I am watching Dancing with the Stars because it’s the 1st step in my 12 step program.
“What’s wrong with you?,” my friend laughs. “was there no basketball on TV?” No mixed martial arts to watch?”
“Nope.”
I laugh. I’m letting my estrogen flavored jerry curl hang out for the world to see.
I listen to the host. He doesn’t care. He’s on a hit show and he’s getting paid.
There are 3 football players on the show. There is a deaf guy who has a stomach like corrugated metal. Women are lining up to bear his child.
Maybe they’re on to something here.
Maybe the key to understanding women is to feel what they feel, watch what they watch.
Maybe a pink robe and a glass of wine and a Jungle book medley isn’t all that bad.
“I’m telling you it was so refreshingly wonderful” Bruno spurts, showering the crowd with so much effervescent gayness that the host has to take a step back.
By this time the Black Lab in the room drops a rope in my lap.
She senses on a K9 level I need to fight, I need to tussel.
She growls and waits for me to tug on the rope.
“Thanks Bella. I needed that.”
Grrrrrr.
Man Card. Sometimes you gotta give it up.
Life’s Crazy™