Cat’s Dance Story – Part Five
You’ve reached the home stretch! You’ve rounded third! Or any other sports metaphor you’d like to insert here. This is the last post in my dance story series, so enjoy the conclusion.
When we left off, I had reached my lowest point in the summer of 2021.
On September 18th, I got a very unexpected phone call. Lindsey (my sister, fellow “Tramp Champ” member, and now NarroWay staff member) called to ask if I would be willing to dance, not in a show, but for the cast party. Every year at NarroWay, we have a party to celebrate another year of performing and to look toward the future. There’s always a theme, and the one for that party was, “What I Did for Love.”
Cat’s Dance Story – Part Four
Well, you’ve made it this far. You’re in deep. So you might as well read the rest of my dance story. Let’s get on with it…
The last part of this story is hard. It was a difficult time for a lot of reasons. No one likes to talk about themselves at their worst, but in order to understand the significance of the victory, you have to know about the struggle. So, onward.
Cat’s Dance Story – Part Three
Yay! You came back for the third installment of my dance story. Or you accidentally clicked the link and are now desperately trying to close this window. But…don’t! Read more about me! Here goes…
For this next part, I need to back up just a bit.
In addition to being a dancer, I have four children. I danced through most of their pregnancies and returned to the stage shortly after each was born. Being on stage was as much a part of being a mother for me as was diapers and car seats. I remember specifically laughing with my good friend, and fellow dancer, Katie while using a breast pump backstage during my off scenes during one of our shows. If that’s TMI…too bad. You’re in too deep. You’ve got to hear the whole story now!
Cat’s Dance Story – Part Two
Welcome back to Unscripted! Since you’ve returned, I have to assume I neither scared you off nor bored you to tears. I can only hope you’re on the edge of your seat waiting for…more of my dance story! Cause that’s what you’re getting! Let’s get back into it…
In February of 2000, I was asked by my friend Dianne to attend her audition for NarroWay Productions as moral support. If I could go back and tell my 19-year-old self how that one night would change my life, I don’t think I would believe myself.
Cat’s Dance Story – Part One
Welcome to my first post on my revamped blog!
In choosing my first topic, I considered lots of different things. There’s so much swimming around my brain I would love to share with you. However, I finally decided the best idea was to start the blog with something autobiographical, something that tells my readers a little about me.
I don’t believe in the idea of a “life story.” Instead, I think every life is made up of many stories. In some, you are the hero. In others, you are the villain. And in many, you are both. I’m no different. As I was trying to choose one of my stories, something significant happened. I won’t reveal it now, because it will ruin this series, but, recently, I had a life-changing moment. And because of that, I will be telling my dance story first.
On May 25th, 2018, I went “under the knife.”
I willingly let someone cut me open, mess around a bit, and put me back together. I had “a little work done.” I had “a nip and a tuck,” to use all the Hollywood clichés. The next two questions I get following that admission have been the same:
“What did you have done?” and “Why?”
I’ve decided to answer in blog form, because that’s how we writers like to answer questions about our lives—in writing.
We’ve all heard the expression:
She’s finding herself.
He’s taking some time to find himself.
It’s synonymous with someone leaving for an exotic place, eating weird food, and probably writing a memoir. Or someone quitting her job and locking herself in a basement with a guitar. Both scenarios are usually explained with an eye roll. But what does it really mean, to find yourself? For me, it has everything to do with looking in the mirror.
We all have things about ourselves we’d like to change. A word for it is dysphoria, which literally means “a state of unease or dissatisfaction.” Dysphoria* comes in many shapes and sizes. Some of us are only “mildly dissatisfied” with things about ourselves. Others struggle with crippling dysphoria. For some, it’s a temporary struggle. For others, it’s a lifelong battle. What I’m going to talk about is somewhere in the middle.
Maclane. “Wee-Bubby”. My “little one”. My “snugglebutt”. My “big Mac”.
If there’s one thing about Maclane that stands out, it’s his history with speech. As some of you know, Maclane was in speech therapy for about a year, because he could only say about three words at nearly two years-old. His doctor told us this was most likely because he had fluid in his ears for a long period of time before having tubes put in. Needless to say, the speech therapy was very, very effective. Now, Maclane never stops talking. Ever. As he said to his Papa recently, “I just start talking when the sun comes up.” And the other day, he informed me, “Mommy, I have a lot of words inside of me.” Except…that first sentence came out of his mouth like this, “I jus start tal-ting when da sun tomes up.”
Happy New Year to all!
We’ve made it through the Mayan ‘apocalypse’ and I have made it through a rough few weeks with the flu and pneumonia. It seems like getting sick is my Christmas tradition, but this was one was especially bad. Thankfully, it seems to be on its way out. Having been doing a lot of sitting around while sick, I’ve been catching up on my Facebook/Email/UselessReadingThingsOnline. While reading about everyone’s holidays and some sweet Christmas stories, I stumbled upon a couple of personal stories that really hit home. These are two stories from two moms, neither of whom I know personally. I found their stories because they had been shared by friends of friends on Facebook.
So…I’ve been compelled for a while now to say my two cents about Facebook. I refuse to do it on Facebook, however, because I just don’t want to be one of ‘those people’. The very people who compel me to write this post.