My Style is a Nightmare

Occasionally, I have this dream. I'm on a stage, the curtains are down. I'm surrounded by other dancers, who are stretching, chatting and preparing themselves. I look down, I'm dressed like them. I'm one of them. And, I realize--

I don't know the choreography.

I can hear the audience on the other side of the curtain and I am freaking out. I'm so stressed, I can't even think about the fact that I am rocking this leotard. Dancers take their positions, music starts, and I am a deer in the headlights as the curtain rises.  If I started dancing, I'm sure I'd look like *Napoleon Dynamite.

I wake up.

Lucky for me, I never get to the part of the dream where everyone dances and I stand there like an idiot. If I had a therapist, I'm sure she would tell me this is a sign that I'm feeling unprepared for something in my life. Or that I really wish I could still rock a leotard.

I did not have this dream last night.

While I am performing tonight for the first time in over two decades, I'm not worried. I am prepared. I'm not dancing (which the audience will thank me for!). I'm reading a piece that I wrote. It's part of me. Though there is the chance that I will mess up a word, or that my voice will catch, I feel okay about the performance itself.

So, why the butterflies dive-bombing my gut?

I don't know what to wear.

I'm not kidding. I went through my entire closet yesterday (doesn't take long) and tried on pretty much everything. At one point, I ripped off a jacket and threw it on the floor (I may have stomped on it).  I finally found what I thought looked all right. I tossed the skirt in the wash, because it had a pen mark on it. (My skirts always have pen marks on them. The result of going to church with a 6 year-old who constantly climbs on your lap.) I went to bed feeling good that I'd made my choice.

Then I woke this morning with a rock in my stomach. I thought about the other women in the show--one is wearing a vintage Chanel dress (pretty sure Chanel never made anything my size), another has a polka-dot dress, add some in skinny jeans and I'm feeling exactly like my blog title- frumpy.

Deep breath.

These women are amazing, and I feel so privileged to be included in their group. They are not about their clothes, I know this. They have become my friends. They are beautiful, kind and so stinking smart! They won't care  what I wear. So, I shouldn't either.

Where are my moon boots?

*Just think of me while you watch--

(If you don't know, moon boots are the stylish footwear donned by Napoleon in most of the movie.)