A new semester has started and with it, my return to the business of teaching dance. Not to be confused with “dancing at night”, which is what my husband tells his co-workers I do. I’m not entirely sure that he is aware of the implications that go along with that statement but I’m positive I’ll hear about it at their annual Christmas party. This means an evening of crude jokes about pole dancing and me not actually being Nic’s wife but rather, a paid escort. Awesome, can’t wait. My consolation prize, two free drink tickets.
I teach for just over three hours, one night a week which, it seems, is just enough time to spark separation anxiety in my infant. This means that I am no longer afforded the luxury of peeing without an audience. You would think, as a woman, this isn’t a huge deal; considering on any given night out, us ladies are using the bathroom as a herd. But I can assure you, taking a leak with my seven-month-old son watching is a completely different, and more awkward experience, probably because I’m sober (most of the time.)
The staring doesn’t help either.