My folks gave me a nice big gift certificate for my birthday (thanks, guys!), so I now have new tights, technique shoes, and even a fancy leotard that I have been eyeballing for three straight years (for the record it makes me feel a bit naked, but oh well.) Mmm... new dance clothes. So good.
I had to order stuff using my husband's Amazon Prime account (I am not going to pay for shipping, guys) and just told him not to look at the invoice because he would be horrified to see what ballet clothes and women's underwear (which I also bought) actually cost. I swear. He can go down to Target and buy a pack of boxers for $5, but I buy one bra and it's practically the event of the season. Sheesh.
I am out of class today because my something-or-other has folded in on itself (I have no idea. It was badly diagnosed as a kidney stone 9 years ago, but it sure as heck ain't) so I am in just enough pain to be slightly delusional. Shoot. I'd much rather be dancing.
I'm looking for a new job. A big-girl job doing boring office work. I have precisely zero experience and I won't give up dancing in the evenings unless you physically threaten my family, so I am running up against a few obstacles. Something will work out. It has to. Because if not, and I am stuck living in this apartment with these asshole neighbors? I will probably snap and kill someone. You will see me on the news. It won't be pretty. I'm fairly certain pointe shoes with rice bags in the toes count as deadly weapons.